


The Adventure of the Spider's Web

by ArdentAspen2



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Gen, Gothic Au, Legends are Real, Megatron is the Worst, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Spiders, Spot the cameo, Transformers Prime season 1, Vampires, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, do not anger the librarian, everyone has human names, genderbending in Starscream's case, no seriously i wrote it based on his narrative style, robert louis stevenson style
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:08:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9848297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArdentAspen2/pseuds/ArdentAspen2
Summary: (Human AU) Renowned philanthropist and lover of books, Lord Optimus of the house of Prime did not expect that the appearance of his secretary and a young paperboy on his doorstep on foggy London evening would herald the return of an old enemy and catalyze a chain of events leading to a darker villainy in the shadows of the city.Written in the style of Robert Louis Stevenson (and occasionally Bram Stoker), though that leans back towards my own normal writing style at times. One of my more complicated projects. It was wholly inspired by MamonnA's Victorian Transformers art (http://mamonna.deviantart.com/gallery/41632642/Victorian-TFP), from which I also got some of the names





	1. Prologue and Dramatis Personae

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any questions about names and Who's Who, leave a comment below and I'll be glad to answer it. The names don't all match the sound of the original character's name, but some were picked because the definitions were similar.

**The Adventure of the Spider's Web**  
_Being an Alternate Universe fiction composed by Ardent Aspen_

**Dramatis Personae:**

The Heroes.

**Lord Optimus Prime:** a young nobleman in his mid-thirties, who inherited the position from his late father. Single, well-educated, and a well-known lover of books. He has a deep compassion for the poor and often takes unfortunates off the streets to give them jobs. He carries a longstanding grudge against the House of Kaon that differs slightly from the ancient blood feud between their respective families, but he refuses to discuss it with anyone but Dr. Rach.

 **William Fowler:** an inspector from Scotland Yard who once saved the life of the previous Lord Prime. Often tired and occasionally surly, he has had to answer a great many calls that border the ridiculous when dealing with the goings-on in House Prime.

 **Dr. Samuel Isaiah Rach:** a surly, bachelor doctor who tires of his work among the rich and often wishes that he could afford to work solely with the poor—yet a rather steep rent will not allow him to. He has been Lord Prime's companion since the latter graduated, and they have seen some very strange adventures together.

 **Brogan O'Garvie:** Once part of a street gang, Lord Prime turned the young Irishman away from a criminal path and now he works (on the surface) as Prime's stablemaster. Behind the scenes, he is a formidable soldier and brawler in the infamous Bull's Horn Band. Given his size, many people assume he's in his early thirties when in fact he's barely twenty-two.

 **Brendan Foiche:** The eldest of the six Foiche children, the eighteen year old Irishman is a crackshot, an errand runner, and whatever else Lord Prime needs depending on the situation. He harbors a deep hatred for the house of Kaon, as one of theirs recently murdered a cousin of his who was engaged to Lord Prime's secretary. He is a member of the Bull's Horn Band.

**Raphael Foiche:** Brendan's youngest brother, a bright lad of ten. To his wealthy parents' chagrin, he is most often found either tagging along with his eldest brother, or playing with the very poor Shackleton children in a rougher part of the city. 

**Wallace “Wheels” Jerome:** A loud, swaggering fellow with a penchant for carriage races—often landing him in trouble with the local constabulary—and a bit of a problem with authority figures. Dr. Rach likes to blame this on the man's American father, but there is no evidence in favor of that theory. For the most part, he hangs around Lord Prime's stables and appears to be quite useless, save when a skirmish with the house of Kaon arises. Then, with the other members of the Bull's Horn Band, he is more a force of nature than anything else. 

**Hagen Shackleton:** the twelve year old cousin of Wheels Jerome, and the eldest of eleven children. Hagen does odd jobs for Lord Prime and helps around Inspector Fowler's offices to buy food for his three brothers and seven sisters. He also occasionally spies on the house of Kaon, being small and light on his feet. He is Raph's closest friend. May have a slight fondness for fire. 

**Arcee d'Iacon:** orphaned at the age of fifteen, the young woman from a middle class family taught herself typing and made a living as a secretary. She discovered the extensive library of Lord Prime by accident and, sensing a fellow bibliophile, badgered him for three days until the nobleman hired her as his personal typist. She also functions as a scout, slipping into places where one of the men would attract too much attention, such as questioning Decepticon victims in hospitals. 

**Widow June Darby:** widowed before the birth of her son, and looked down upon by many for her attempted area of study (not everyone approved of women nurses in those days), she lives in a poor neighborhood, assisting local physicians here and there and cleaning the church during the week. 

**Jack Anthony Darby:** Nurse Darby's fourteen year old son, a kind-hearted boy with a strong sense of right and wrong. He sells papers to help make ends meet, but knows that they are close to being evicted. Despite growing up in the East End, he maintains a slightly upper crust accent. This did not make him many friends as a child. 

**Mo Li:** the thirteen year old daughter of a pair of cons who ran away from home. Having escaped their trade ship, she came to London, where she wanders, hiding in charities, hoping her parents will not find her. She is a brash, adventurous girl who cares little for convention. (That is to say, Arcee hits it off right away with her) 

The Villains.

**Lord Megatron of Kaon:** recently returned from a long journey to India, he is a ruthless, power-hungry tyrant of a man, only loyal to the queen, and that is more of a patriotic affection than anything else. His family harbors an ancient grudge against the house of Prime, and he is only too willing to continue it. In his fifties, physically fit, prone to fits of temper and feats of strength, he is cruelly cunning and does not care who dies so long as he gets his way. 

**Ms. Estella Clamat:** Lord Megatron's terrifying housekeeper. A shrill, demanding woman who is very used to getting her own way, especially since the master's been gone. She and Megatron often clash, but as she's the only one who knows how to cook, he does not fire her or attempt to kill her. Estella organizes most of the house of Kaon's assassination missions. It is strongly advised that newcomers to the House avoid her cooking. 

**Bajānā:** the code name of the enigmatic assassin Lord Kaon brought back with him from India. He carries a falcon with him wherever he goes, and is rumored to be able to see through his eyes. He is habitually silent, and it is not known what ethnicity he is as he continually covers all traces of skin under deep blue robes. 

**Dr. Kristoff Ottenwilder:** a vain, polished young man who dabbles in science and fancies himself a doctor. He serves as a medic for the house of Kaon, though his practice is questionable. 

**Bruno Drake:** Kristoff's volatile, one-eyed companion, a former military man turned mercenary with a chip on his shoulder and a score to settle with Brogan O'Garvie. 

**La Femme Airagnee:** a mysterious, shadowy figure who leaves a pictogram of a spider everywhere she goes. Only someone very foolish or very wicked would willingly contact her. 

* * *

_ The Adventure of the Spider's Web: Prologue _

_Upon the unfortunate—but not unexpected—passing of my grandfather, I found myself called to his estates in the year 19— to go over his papers, as my mother had died while I was young, and my father was traveling at the time. He lived in a grand, if secluded, old house that I dimly recall being the haunt and hiding place of my many childhood games, along with my cousins and the numerous children of the servants._

_In an old chest of drawers I found the items bequeathed to me in the old gentleman's will. One was an album of faded photographs, some as old as the days of Albert and Victoria. The other was a sheaf of papers, yellowed and stained with age, and bound with a red silk ribbon. Sealing the ribbon was a marvelous little wax design of a helmeted face over a torch. Of course, I knew it at once to be the signet ring of my mother's side of the family. She herself had borne one of the two rings, and my uncle in America wore the other._

_Now that he was gone, I knew that I would become the head of the house in England, and my mother's ring would, in turn, be passed to me._  
I would have liked my cousins to have been there with me, for I found a great many things my grandfather had left specifically for them. He had always feared that somehow they would think themselves less a part of the family because of something to do with their last name. It was never quite clear to me, even in my adult days.  
I pored over the yellowed letters late into the night, and discovered that I have, in fact, a great many more relatives than I knew. 

_Evidently my list of cousins is quite extensive._

_For the most part, the papers were a series of correspondences between at least two generations of my family, both the branch in England, and the branch in America. They covered such a wide array of astounding events and colorful characters—some of whom I had been certain were fictional—that I thought it best to write it all down._  
And so here, on these poor pages, I bequeath to you the strange and wonderful story of the House of Prime, and how they found themselves caught up in the most extraordinary events to shape the world.  
Should you have further questions, I trust my secretary will be available to answer them further, though I hope that through the study of these letters and diaries, both your curiosity and mine shall be satisfied. 

_All my best,  
-O.P._


	2. The Story of the Typist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing our first character!  
> And also our bad guys.  
> This one, of all the chapters, is the most in the style of Robert Louis Stevenson. It sort of trickles off a bit after that.

Chapter One:   
_ The Story of the Typist _   
_London, England: 1877_

Miss d'Iacon the typist was a woman of a delicate countenance never far from a smile or a frown as the situation merited; cool, gentle, and sharp in discourse and tenderly human in sentiment. Known to the populace as a figure of mystery and imaginings, but known to those that merited her favor as a woman both beautiful and capable, never without a quick word and a keen eye. The reasoning behind the murmuring that followed wherever she went chiefly lay in the fact that, though never married and quite aloof, she ever wore a black ribbon over her heart and could, at times, be heard describing herself as a widow.

Of course, the more romantically inclined dreamed that she had been engaged and that something dreadful had befallen on the way to the chapel, while the more down-to-earth posited that she had, perhaps, been in love and that it had not turned out to her liking.  
Whatever the reason, Miss d'Iacon never gave them more to speak of than necessary, for though she had a remarkable tolerance for the deeds of others, the one thing that she could not abide was gossip.

“It is,” she was fond of saying, “The most thoroughly useless of all past times, and liable to cause great injury if left unchecked.”

What was noticed most often about the woman is that when she rode her bicycle to and from her places of employment as a typist, she was sometimes followed by a well-dressed younger man whom she referred to as a cousin.

It chanced upon one dark morning, when Miss d'Iacon went about her way to her place of work, that she fell into rather distasteful company and was obliged to do something about it.

By happenstance, it was an hour in which the folk were still asleep in their beds, and not a soul stirred on the wet and glimmering streets. Being of a sound mind and good common sense, Miss d'Iacon did not stray from the lighted procession of the lamps as they struggled to send forth their glow through the fog. On this morning, of all mornings, she had no desire to be followed, for her employer had entrusted her with the delivery of a personal nature, and it was well-known that the man had enemies; unscrupulous and petty men often found their way to the house that had rivaled her employer's for time out of mind, and any chance to do mischief to a representative of that house was quickly leapt upon.

In the stifled silence of the London fog, Miss d'Iacon and her companion passed a row of shops, still and ghastly in the flickering light, and came to a place where the sphere of comfort vanished abruptly. Like a cavernous mouth in a craggy face, the entry to a recessed courtyard broke the line of shops and doors, stealing away the glow of the lamps. In the light of day, it would be considered a dirty, ill-kept place, and people might hurry past. In the darkness, it presented a sinister aspect; a monstrous creature crouched between buildings with maw open wide to greedily receive those driven by desperation or necessity to enter.

It is not to be wondered at that the pair of cyclists did not wish to linger near the entryway. As they came upon it, Miss d'Iacon paused and turned her head towards the dark place.  
“Did you mark that?” she asked; when her companion answered that he had not heard anything, she added, “I thought I heard a door opening.”

“Let's not stay here,” the young man begged of her, “We ought to deliver the parcel with all good speed, and I must confess that this place chills the blood in between dusk and dawn.”

“I can hardly disagree, my dear Mr. Foiche,” Miss d'Iacon murmured, “For I seem to recall that this is very near the place where we first intercepted the package! Do you remember?”

“I do,” said Mr. Foiche in a changed voice, “I very nearly had my throat torn out, dear cousin. How can you possibly believe I would forget such a night?” And he resolved to sulk.

Each of them slowly moved their bicycles onward, having heard no further sound of doors in the darkened courtyard. If they could but reach the end of the street with no particular incident, they knew they could continue their mission at ease, for there was a policeman who took it upon himself to patrol the next block over with admirable diligence.

All at once a sound of running came up out of the fog behind them, and before they'd gotten beyond another two shop-windows, Brendan Foiche was forcibly pulled from his bicycle and down onto the wet cobblestones. Miss d'Iacon circled up and turned back without a second thought, greeted by a rather hellish view.

The attackers were some five or six men, broad-shouldered and swarthy with a pugilistic air as tenable as their foul breath. They wore the black and purple livery of a certain house of a certain nobleman who was known to be no friend of their employer's. Brendan, of course, was putting up a wonderful show of his boxing-lessons, and left more than one of the brigands with a free sample of what might occur when one angers a Foiche. The leader of the rout, with a kind of devilish coolness of temper, took hold of a great fistful of Mr. Foiche's light hair, as it had come loose of the band he was used to tying it back with. In a sharp motion, the fellow gave a sharp tug and pulled back his prisoner's head, exposing his throat.

“Now you,” said the man in as crude and ungentlemanly an air as you can imagine, “You are to hand over the parcel and the letters within it at once, else watch as we spill our young gentleman's blood across the streets!”

Now Miss d'Iacon was nothing so fragile as the servants of the house of Kaon imagined. Though she kept well out of the way of skirmishes so as to complete her tasks with the greater efficiency, that did not make her any kind of coward or frail creature to be pitied; all the time that Brendan fought against the band of rogues, his companion held her hands behind her back so that they could not see what she was doing.

All seemed to freeze as Lord Prime's secretary brought from behind her back not the parcel, containing letters revealing the criminal activities of Lord Kaon's business associates, but a Philadelphia Derringer, primed and loaded. The woman wasted no time with meaningless threats or pleas for peace. It was the work of a moment to pull the trigger, and send a bullet through the cheek and jowl of the man holding Brendan captive.

Mr. Foiche took advantage of the opportunity provided by the bullet, as his captor fell back with a thunderous roar of pain, and pitched himself back into battle with red hot fervor as Miss d'Iacon once more took to her bicycle and made for the end of the street. A piercing sound, like the call of a kestrel, split the rising gray of the morning, and was answered in kind from a street away, to the irritation of the waking neighbors.

The attackers withdrew back into the courtyard, for well they knew that the call heralded the arrival of the Bull's Horn Band, still out for blood over the death of Brendan's cousin Heathcliff. The smack of hobnailed boots upon the stones further warned that they were hard on the heels of Brendan's attackers, and they would not leave without satisfaction.  
The local policeman had quite a brawl to break up when his rounds finally brought him to the darkened street, and was obliged to call for a doctor to tend to the two that the Band managed to catch. The other four made good their escape and disappeared between the alleys and the by-streets.

Miss d'Iacon stepped into the shop of a local tailor, quite unaware of the falcon watching her from the rooftops, and found a thin, mousy sort of man being fitted for a new coat.

“My dear Miss d'Iacon, you look quite unwell!” said he; he stepped down off of the stool and prevailed upon the woman to sit and regain her breath. “I do hope I am not the cause?”

“In a manner of speaking, I fear,” Miss d'Iacon replied, “Or at least, it was for your sake that we encountered some undesirable company.” With a flourish, she produced the parcel from beneath her arm. “Here,” she said, “You will find the names of two bankers who have been quietly removing funds from the treasuries and supplying them to members of our unpleasant neighbors.”

She did not, of course, outright say that they were paying the House Kaon, for one never knew when there might be spies about, and it would not do to air their personal grievances before the common folk!

Inspector Bell slit the envelope with a pair of shears taken from the seamstress's table, and he briefly perused the contents of the letter. “My dear lady,” he said when he had finished, “I cannot thank your employer enough for his cooperation in this matter, nor you for your great courage in coming here to find me. You did not come all alone?”

“No, Inspector, a dear friend acted as my escort until we came across some who did not wish the letters to be delivered. He remained behind so that I might more easily deliver this parcel.” the secretary assured him.

“Well in that case, I congratulate you both!” Inspector Bell hastily pocketed the letters and paid the seamstress. “Miss d'Iacon, would you permit me to drive you to the station? I've a carriage waiting outside, and I do not feel that Lord Prime would approve of his secretary cycling alone back to the library after having been in such a dangerous position!” He swept a low bow and tipped his hat. “You needn't worry about any matters of propriety or safety! I should like to take you to luncheon with my wife, if it is agreeable to you?” The typist answered that this was, naturally, a perfectly agreeable arrangement and they left together, meeting Mrs. Bell at the police station.

Neither one saw the black falcon rise from his perch and return to the arm of a robed man in blue, strangely wrapped so that nothing was visible of him save for his eyes, which shone an unhealthy yellow tinge. Beside the man stood a woman of a sharp and inhospitable look.

With a dour glance, she folded her wrinkled hands over her grey silk gown and squinted down at the streets below. “Something's got to be done about that librarian woman,” she remarked. “Shall I leave it to you, Bajānā, or shall I have to do everything myself, as usual?”

In a curious, husky whisper, Bajānā merely echoed back, “As usual.”

“Very well,” Ms. Clamat sniffed, rather offended by the answer. “Go and see to the injured men then, if you'll not help me! I must return to the manor. My lord will be hearing about this disaster, and I daresay he'll be none too pleased.”

“None too pleased,” Bajānā agreed. Then, with a flick of his cape and a twitch of her skirt, they were gone, and the sun rose to noon over an empty balcony.


	3. A Place to Sit and Ponder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which we meet a few familiar faces

_ Chapter Two: _

_ A Place to Sit and Ponder _

_London, England: 1878_

The hands that turned the key in the lock were small and white and stained with ink at the tips; they would not have attracted much notice, belonging to a typist. If, however, some uncouth fellow chanced to catch the woman by the wrist and turn her hands over, he might have been astonished to discover great dark scars, like the lines on a map, stretching from the heel of her hand to her elbow.

But no such scoundrel existed who could manage such a feat without incurring great wrath and greater injury, for the typist suffered no man to treat her inconsiderately.

With the smallest of clicks, the lock was set and the woman set about securing the key in her handbag, a fashionable little affair held shut with drawstrings.

"Until tomorrow then," she said to no-one in particular, then descended the marble steps, taking great care to pin her hat more firmly to her dark, upswept hair. It was such a nice shade of blue, after all, that she would have been quite put out should something spoil it.

All at once, a chill came over Miss d'Iacon that had very little to do with the gnawing frost that seemed to be keeping everyone indoors. She looked about and, seeing no one, drew her tailored coat a little tighter over her riding habit.

"Now Miss d'Iacon," said the typist sternly to herself, "You're only being silly. Imagine, someone like you jumping at shadows like a schoolgirl! Whatever would your mother have said?"

Naturally, some shade of her concern must have been tied to being a woman out alone in a world that was, admittedly, not very friendly to her gender. There was, added to that, little point in denying that she was a woman with enemies. Miss d'Iacon could no longer operate strictly out of sight for Lord Prime: she had been marked.

The woman unfastened an old bicycle from the iron railing and departed for her flat.

From the rooftops of the fine houses around her, several pairs of unfriendly eyes glittered with evil intent. Then, as quick as a thought, they had gone.

Miss d'Iacon coasted easily along the streets with a cordial greeting and a polite nod for what few souls could be found out and about at such a late hour. By and by, the mansions around her gave way to humbler buildings, and crowded closer together like the poor, huddled together for warmth. The typist continued onward and did not try to avoid the puddles and the slush that had gathered on the byways. What good would it have done in February, after all? Mud splashed up and quite soon the hem of her cobalt dress looked positively primeval.

As the houses surrounding became less hospitable and more functional, Miss d'Iacon came to the part of her journey where she was most unfortunately required to take a short cut through the East End. Poor, overcrowded, and on occasion frequented by characters with motivations other than pure ones, it was not the sort of place one might expect to find Lord Prime's secretary. She took this leg of the journey at a quicker pace than before, unwilling to stay longer than necessary. It had been whispered to her, by women detained at hospitals, that there was something sinister afoot in the Whitechapel area, some gentleman who was, in their words, "proper-dressed, but some'ow not wot ye'd call a gennleman, if ye take my meanin' miss".

Miss d'Iacon would discover years later that the women's fears were not unfounded, but for now she merely endeavored to give the whole setting as wide a berth as she could manage. As she crossed the street, she came to a lonely corner in the waning light, just outside a glowing tavern resounding with the drunken carousing of revelers. Standing at the edge of the street was a young man attempting to sell newspapers, though no-one was out to buy them.

He could barely have been older than fourteen, and his nose and cheeks were scarlet with the cold. Miss d'Iacon felt a stab of pity for the lad, as he had been entirely unable to sell more than two papers thus far. The oft-patched coat and well-worn hat he wore testified to the necessity of the evening edition's purchase, and his thin shoes offered no protection from the harsh temperament of the weather.

Not of a sentimental nature, yet warm and compassionate in sentiment, the typist felt that she could not pass the thin creature by. Her duties had been light throughout the day and she was in an altogether charitable mood as she halted her bicycle and leaned over.

"I'll take one, if you don't mind lad."

The young man made quite a start, having not heard her approach. With a flush that had more to do with embarrassment than the cold, he held out one slightly damp paper.

"Two for a pence, miss, if you'd like," he gulped in an accent rather out of place with his rough surroundings. He sounded as though he would have been more at home in one of the better boarding schools near her end of town, rather than standing in the snow selling papers. Miss d'Iacon thought that perhaps his family had fallen upon hard times, as her own had when her father had died long ago. She did not, of course, voice her thoughts so as not to embarrass the lad, but now more than ever she felt a desire to see to it that he would be alright for tonight at the very least.

Quietly, she thanked him as she took the paper and handed him a pence, then asked whether he thought anyone else would be interested in buying a paper that evening; when he answered rather forlornly that he didn't think so, she said, "Well then, I think you ought to go home, young man. You'll only catch your death out here! If not for your own sake, for your poor mother's, I do insist that you get indoors!"

The boy looked down at his stack of sadly blurring papers with a kind of frown on his narrow features. "I wish that I could, miss," he pushed his black hair from his eyes and put the pence in his pocket. "I'm afraid the landlord isn't as charitable as you, bless the man."

"Bless him!" Miss d'Iacon said with no little surprise, "Whatever for?"

"Why miss," answered he with a smile hinting towards the mischievous, "doesn't the Bible tell us to bless those who curse us?" She smiled and answered that it did indeed, and it occurred to her to suggest that if the landlord was really so heartless as all that, perhaps he might take shelter in a church for the evening. It was sure to be warmer than sleeping in the streets, at any rate.

The lad seemed to brighten at the suggestion, then his eyes grew narrow, and vapor clouded the air as his breath hissed from between his teeth. He was looking at something just over Miss d'Iacon's shoulder, where she could not see. When she made a face clearly demanding an explanation, the paperboy spoke in a low tone.

"There are three men just there, under the eaves across the street. All the time that you've stood here with me, they've been there. I fear their motives are highly suspect, miss." Then with an apology for his boldness, the lad warned her to clear out.

In the frosted windowpane behind the young man, there was the barest hint of a reflection of the three, only clear enough to show hulking, tallow creatures hanging back like ghosts in an unpleasantly familiar livery.

The figures clearly were bent on mischief to her person in some manner, and she could see no way to outdistance them on the bicycle in a part of London she was not altogether familiar with. That left her only hope in standing and fighting, but she hoped it would not come to that, for by now the House of Kaon was well aware that she carried a derringer. Too late, she realized that the paperboy was speaking to her.

"I beg your pardon?" asked she, and patiently he repeated an offer to escort her back to the West End, making use of side streets that he was accustomed to using. He was quite offended when Miss d'Iacon asked whether he would like to be rewarded for his kindness, and rather stiffly answered that he only wanted to make sure that she reached her destination safely. "You're someone's sister or daughter, miss. That's all I need to know."

She was unable to argue with the young man's stolid and unshakable attitude, and so she agreed that he might lead her out of the East End, particularly as the three men from the House of Kaon were edging closer quite boldly. With an unfinished warning of what might befall should the paperboy manage to get them lost, Miss d'Iacon allowed him to take her by the hand and let her bicycle clatter to the cobblestones as they took off at a run.

The sound of boots upon stone followed them like an executioner's drumbeat as the moved from byway to byway, stopping only once, when they appeared to have met a dead end. The thin lad dragged an abandoned cart over to a low wall and insisted that Miss d'Iacon go first. With never a moment's composure lost, she did so and reached back to pull her young rescuer with her as he kicked the cart away. There was no time to celebrate clever escapes, however, and they were soon on their feet again.

All remaining light was eclipsed by the slow moving fog as it draped itself down over the buildings and rubbed up against the windowpanes. They'd got across town, to be sure, but they'd not lost their pursuers. The barbarous trio were still hard on their heels with little chance of relenting, and though their pace was flagging in proportion to the length of time they'd run, so too had Miss d'Iacon and the boy slowed.

"Lad, you must realize," Miss d'Iacon said, "That if those ugly fellows intend to harm me, you've made yourself a target as well?" To which the young man replied that he might've come to blows with them sooner or later even if he had not met her, for they frequented his part of town with no small amount of damage left in their wake. The boy said he didn't see how it could get much worse, and the secretary hardly knew how to answer his naivete.

Their breath came in gasps and their steps slowed as they wound through a labyrinth of alleys and hidden gates towards the place of the woman's employment. With signs that he should now follow her, Miss d'Iacon hid herself in the shadows behind a hedge as their would-be assailants rounded the corner. The leader of the three came uncomfortably close to their hiding place, but was interrupted in his search by a brash and youthful voice that cut through the night with a brogue as thick as the fog.

"Well, would you look here, Raphael, m'lad? They do say as rats come out at night, now don't they?"

Standing at the alley's end, framed like a guardian angel straight from a boxing match, stood the unflappable Mr. Foiche. Miss d'Iacon noted that his coat was well-brushed and looked quite new, and knew that Mr. Foiche's mother and father would likely have reason to buy a new one for him before the night was out. At the young Irishman's side stood a small boy, perhaps nine or ten years of age. He was as well-dressed as his brother and watched with wide eyes.

"So are they rats then, Brendan?" he asked.

The older of the pair winked broadly and nodded. "Oh aye," said he, "That they are, boyo. An' ye know what it is we do about rats on our streets, now don't ye?" Both the young man and the young child made horrible, grimacing smiles at the men and brandished their fists in a threatening manner.

A matching smile graced Miss d'Iacon's lips. "At last we have some good fortune!" The paperboy remarked that he wasn't certain how a man barely older than seventeen and a child who ought to have been in bed at that hour could do anything against the three assassins and the typist shook her head. "Where Brendan Foiche goes, the Bull's Horn Band are certain to follow. And little Raph is a sight too quick for those lumbering elephants, especially now they've run so far in one night. Now come along, let's not have you out in this cold longer than necessary, hm?"

Just as she had said, it was not twenty seconds before Brogan O'Garvie and Wallace "Wheels" Jerome turned up, red-faced and eager for a brawl. Contrary to her predictions, however, one of the Kaon men managed to escape the fracas and followed the fugitives all the way to their destination.

Miss d'Iacon was quite relieved to see the beautiful marble house, supported at the front by the thirteen pillars. It did not once occur to her to think of the number as unlucky, though it did cross the assassin's mind as he darted out of the mist to confront the pair. It was only one woman and one child, after all, and he should have had little trouble disarming and killing them both.

In the scuffle that ensued, the ragged boy managed to blacken his eye. The man's fury was an awful sight, and with little effort, weary though he was, he had snatched up the lad by the collar and thrown him to the walkway. As he lay there, winded, the Kaon man drew a dagger and threatened with a vile oath that he should pin the boy to the sidewalk as a permanent decoration for the upper class to look at. His intended victim moved only just in time to avoid a blow that would have ended him, but came away with a rather nasty gash on one shoulder.

All the while that the man in black and purple had fought with the boy from the East End, he'd forgotten about Miss d'Iacon's derringer. Once the lad was out of the way, she brought the small pistol to bear on the ruffian's forehead.

" _Truly_ sir, you _are_ an imbecile!" Miss d'Iacon's tone was one part pity and one part contempt. "Not only have you followed me like a common dog from one end of the city to the other, but you have assaulted an innocent citizen in front of _his_ home!"

With an inarticulate noise that sounded curiously like dismay, the assassin leapt to his feet from where he had tried to stab the boy a second time. There came the sound of a latch being undone, and light spilled out from a doorway.

An authoritative voice rang out over the fray. "What is the meaning of this?!" A shadowy form stood framed in the door, someone holding a candle behind them. "Put that knife away this instant sir, or I promise upon my honor that not only shall I take it from you by force, but you shall not have it back until it cuts you down from the gallows!"

The would-be assassin showed a wonderfully clean pair of heels and vanished into the night, leaving all still once more as a freezing rain began to fall.

"My dear Miss d'Iacon, are you well?" the voice from the door asked. The secretary gratefully replied that she was quite well, thank you, but that the boy had taken quite a beating on her behalf. Out of the candlelight strode a tall man, in disposition more like a king than a noble, and he carried a lantern. "I believe you had best come inside, the pair of you," he remarked, and helped the boy to his feet. "I shall send for my physician presently."

The young man began to protest, saying that he was quite certain he did not need a doctor, and that he did not wish to trouble anyone, but the man who had rescued them would not hear of it. He reasoned that, as his physician was rarely asleep at nights anyway, he could hardly be causing any bother by alleviating the man's perpetual ennui.

Once within the marvelous house, they found themselves escorted into a wide room containing quite possibly the largest collection of books the paperboy had ever seen. The nobleman's dark blue eyes twinkled with a wisdom that seemed almost mischievous at times. "Do you like books, my lad?" asked the man, "I've spent a great deal of my youth collecting them." And he smiled briefly at the secretary, who had evidently forgotten the man and boy entirely and had settled herself into one of the green velvet chairs with a slim volume from the desk.

"I should like to know what went on here tonight," the owner of the grand house remarked, and he took the boy by the elbow and directed him to a chair. "I certainly did not expect to have one of the servants burst into my study and cry out that someone was being murdered in front of the house!"

"Oh dear!" Miss d'Iacon said boldly, "That means you were intending to work all through the night again, doesn't it? You really ought to take better care of yourself, sir." To which he merely laughed and thanked the woman for her concern, then asked again what had happened.

The tale was briefly told, and in a tone of amusement and scolding at once, the man said he thought Miss d'Iacon ought to know better than to cut through a part of town she was unfamiliar with during the evening. A servant brought a basin of water and, thanking him, the master of the house dipped a handkerchief into the bowl and went about trying to clean some of the blood from the young man's shoulder and face.

"What is your name, lad?" he asked quietly; the young man spoke too quietly to be heard at first, being rather more occupied with the stinging of the cold water on his cuts, and the question had to be repeated.

"Jack, sir," he said, a little louder, "My name is Jack Darby."

The handkerchief came away stained bright red and was rinsed in the basin again. "Well then, Master Darby, you are either very brave, or very rash. That was hardly a common thief you dealt with tonight," he courteously neglected to mention that it was rather the other way around, with the "thief" dealing with the boy. "That was an assassin, very highly trained, sent by an enemy to murder Miss d'Iacon."

Jack paled despite the cold, and the master of the house called for tea to warm the pair up. "But why should anyone wish to murder the lady?" the lad asked, taken aback, "What has she done?"

In a changed voice, the man answered, "It is because of me. I am a man with enemies, young Master Darby, and all those who associate with me find themselves with enemies of their own. I fear that you are now one of those unfortunate souls, as the man who nearly killed you tonight will doubtless recall your face and tell his master that you aided us."

Lighter in tone and disposition suddenly, he turned to Miss d'Iacon. "You needn't bother hiding the abrasion on your arm, my dear Arcee. I've already seen it. You didn't think the boy would receive the only medical attention, did you?" With crimson spreading over her cheeks, the woman muttered some kind of excuse and showed him the angry welt. "I see." The noble-looking gentleman shook out a second handkerchief and dipped it into the water, then wrapped it around the woman's forearm. "That should do until Doctor Rach arrives. Mind you keep that in place!"

Jack watched the strange gentleman with awe, heightened by the sheer magnificence of the home in which he now sat. Even in the days before he and his mother had lived in the East End, he could not have imagined such a place. Jack found himself terribly curious: who was the strange man that had rescued them and tended their wounds?

As if he had read his thoughts, their benefactor turned and smiled down at him. "Ah! Where are my manners tonight? I asked for your name and I never gave my own. Perhaps you are right, Miss d'Iacon, I ought to sleep more often."

He offered a friendly hand to the stunned boy and nodded. "Forgive me, my young friend! I am Lord Optimus, of the House of Prime. You have my thanks for rescuing my secretary." He held up one hand to forestall the awed babble as it fell from the young man's lips. "Please, please, you are exhausted." He ignored his secretary declaring that he was hardly one to talk. "When Winston arrives with the tea, you're both to stay here until you've finished it. Then Winston will show you to a guest room, and in the morning Dr. Rach will examine you. I shall send for your parents, if you like."

"It's only my mother and me, my lord," Jack answered, flushing, "But I'm certain she'll be worried when I don't come home." He was reassured that his mother would be brought to the manor as quickly as could be managed, for their own safety. Winston brought a tea tray in, and Lord Optimus stood and watched to ensure that all of it was consumed.

"Now then, follow Winston and you shall see us all at breakfast tomorrow," he waved the boy away with one hand. "Pleasant dreams, young man." Once Jack was safely out of earshot, he turned to Miss d'Iacon.

"Do you believe this was an act of retaliation for exposing Mr. Sherman and Mr. Thorston's connections to Kaon's more underhanded dealings?" asked he.

"I believe so, my lord," Miss d'Iacon answered, "But it is equally likely that they were simply taking the opportunity to do harm to someone under your care." They stood in pensive silence awhile, then Lord Prime asked whether she'd like him to have someone escort her back to her flat.

"If it's all the same to you, my lord, I think I'll just go up to the study and have a look at your book-keeping. I may as well work while I am here."

"My dear Miss Arcee," the man protested, "You know as well as I that my book-keeping is beyond reproach!"

"Perhaps it is, my dear Lord Prime," she replied, "But you've a horrid habit of writing it all in Latin! Someday you'll marry, and whatever will your poor wife do when she tries to help you with your book-keeping?"

"I should like to think," Lord Prime replied, "That if ever I should find a woman beguiled into marrying me, she would know at least a little Latin."

And so they remained in the library, in a heated, but playful disagreement, until Dr. Rach arrived.


	4. Doctor Rach was Quite Unsettled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which more characters are introduced and Raf makes an enemy

Morning crept over the windowsill like a guilty thing, and pooled on the carpet in the little patches of light that managed to escape the clouds, where it waited repentantly at the edge of the bed-curtains, quite ready to make amends for its nightly absence. Such was the light that brushed across the face of young Jack Darby and woke him from a better sleep than he'd known for years. He rose in solemn but grateful spirits and, upon opening his door, found himself so utterly bewildered by the size of the house that Winston had to be called again to fetch him down to breakfast.

The grandeur of the library and what little he had witnessed in the dark of the night before had not sufficiently prepared the young man for the rest of the manor; Lord Prime was a mixture of every trait that might be called good and noble, and so also was his dwelling place. Artful, varied, rich and yet never reveling in opulence nor falling into the trap of bad taste, the house of Lord Prime could just as easily have been a museum as the home of a nobleman.

Jack had guessed that he might be allowed some small breakfast in the kitchen, perhaps with Winston and the servants, who had all been very kind to him, and that he might see this doctor friend of the master of the house at a later time. He was put rather out of countenance to discover that he was to be ushered directly to a smaller dining room meant for the morning meal, where Lord Prime sat at the head of a mahogany table, reading his letters. Further down the table, Miss d'Iacon smiled at him, a silent thanks for his assistance the previous night, and at her side sat the men of the Bull's Horn Band.

The very youngest member of the band blinked owlishly and remarked that he didn't see why he'd had to be dragged to breakfast when he didn't even live in the manor, but he was met only with good-natured laughs and told to finish his breakfast.

"Good morning, Mr. Darby," Miss d'Iacon spoke rather pointedly, so that the others were unable to ignore his presence, "Your mother arrived shortly before Winston went up to fetch you. She's just in the drawing room, leaving her coat, and she'll be joining us shortly."

"Hullo!" the speaker was young Raphael Foiche. "It's nice to see someone about my age! I was beginning to think I'd forever be the tag-along and never have anyone but my brothers and sisters to talk to!" And Jack smiled back and said that he was very pleased to meet Raphael; he took care to mention the younger lad's great courage in facing the thugs that had attacked him before.

"If that is how a lad of ten faces danger, I should think that when you are a man, nothing will frighten you at all!" said young Mr. Darby, and O'Garvie moved obligingly so that the lads could sit together.

The talk was low-toned and warm, as the terrors of night had long since passed and all at the table were friends, old and new. Of the gathering, only Optimus did not join the conversation, keeping to his letters in calm silence, for he was not given to much conversing before mid-morning. All at once there rose a clamor of voices in the corridor outside of the chamber, and into the room strode a short, well-built, craggy-faced man of forty-seven, with something of a quick-tempered look, perhaps, but smoothed by eyes that showed every indication of a generous and jovial spirit. On his arm he escorted a woman, dark haired and pale with too many cares on her shoulders for someone of her age.

She seemed both relieved and startled to see Jack sitting at the table, and at once remarked, "Jack! Oh I _have_ been worried about you. Are you alright? Dr. Rach tells me there was an accident?"

Jack stood and greeted the woman respectfully. "No, Mother, I'm quite alright. It was a near thing, though. If Miss d'Iacon and Lord Prime had not acted when they did, I fear you would have had a son who was brave, but stone dead." He laughed at her discomfitted face and sat again, and Lord Prime rose and bowed over Mrs. Darby's hand.

"Welcome, welcome my dear lady! We had hoped that you might be able to join us for breakfast, and here you are." He led her to a chair and seated her across from Miss d'Iacon. "Please, make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Darby. Let's not discuss any of the more distressing business until everyone has had a chance to eat."

He turned to the doctor and asked whether he had eaten yet, and the man answered that he had not. Dr. Samuel Rach made his way to the sideboard, and soon made an exclamation of surprise.

"My stars, sir! What sort of breakfast is this meant to be, eh? Cold chicken? Raspberry tarts? And is this a _cherry pie_ I see?"

"My dear Doctor," answered Prime, "I am a grown man and I shall do as I please. If I wish to serve pie for breakfast, then I shall." Then he relented and admitted that it was the birthday of the cook and he had sent her off on holiday to celebrate. All that remained in the larder, he and Winston had set on the sideboard without much thought.

"I think, Lord Prime," spoke the doctor in dry observation, "That you had better hire a few more people to cook around the Manor, particularly if you're to have so many people living here!"

And this was perfectly true, for Lord Optimus followed in the footsteps of his predecessor and was known to be an incurable philanthropist of the most generous nature. More than once he had come upon the poor and unfortunate of the city and put them up in the Manor until they could find work. Some, like the Foiche family, had gone on to become wealthy in their own right, though they never forgot their benefactor and their eldest son was just as often on the estate grounds as in his own home. With the Bull's Horn Band, the Foiche children, the servants, Miss d'Iacon, and the good doctor all so often under Lord Prime's roof, the matter of food and space was brought up so often as to be hardly noteworthy at all. In fact, it was part of the reason that Optimus had begun to consider simply moving everyone to his family's country estate to afford them all more room.

"Doctor, I wonder if you might examine Miss d'Iacon's arm?" the nobleman asked as he sat once more, "It's only an abrasion, of course, but I would prefer that there be no risk of infection."

"Quite so, my lord," the doctor said, "I'll see to it directly. Who was the other patient the messenger mentioned?"

And here Mr. Jerome interrupted to loudly declare, "Well it's the boy, isn't it? I daresay you ought to have known by looking at him! Why, he looks as though he's been boxing with a fencepost!" And the doctor was very put out by this interruption.

"Wallace, won't you fetch my bags?" he asked in his sweetest voice, "I seem to have left them in the coach." Jerome stood grudgingly at a nod from Lord Prime, and scuffed his blunt boots along the boards as he went; "Wheels" Jerome and Dr. Rach could not be called the closest of companions, for where Samuel was reserved in opinion and respectful in discourse, Wallace hardly seemed to care what anyone thought of him at all. At some point in the past, Dr. Rach had made an unfortunate remark, later apologized for, in which he sneeringly suggested that Jerome's dead father, an American, was to blame for his demeanor.

It was generally agreed upon that it was not good sense to have the doctor and the ostler in the same room of the manor for long periods of time.

The latter returned shortly thereafter, and his hair had a curious white tinge to it, interspersed with the brown, so that he appeared to have aged in moments. Shaking the bags and his coat out, Wheels remarked that the doctor might have taken the time to inform him that it had begun to snow outside, and the doctor pretended he'd been quite ignorant of the fact.

"Here now, young master Jack, isn't it? Let's see that shoulder now."

"Oh, sir, I thought perhaps-" Jack began, with an uncomfortable glance around the table.

"Ah, quite right boy. Quite right," the doctor interrupted cheerily, "I shall just have to clear a space in one of the parlors." He pushed back his chair and gathered up his bags.

"You know," he turned to Lord Prime, "I've just discovered that this godsend woman here-" and he gestured politely to Jack's mother, "has studied medicine? Indeed, she and her late husband -- your pardon, madam, for bringing him up -- managed to acquire all the qualifications of a proper nurse, but no one will take her on because she's female! Now I call that monstrously unfair, wouldn't you agree?"

Each member of the House of Prime made some mumbling excuse to go and hastily cleared away, for when Samuel Isaiah Rach began to fret about the standards and prejudices of medical care, he was liable to go on for hours at a time in the driest fashion imaginable. Left without an audience, the doctor made a somewhat sulky exit and resolved to see to Jack's injuries in one of the parlors.

"Brendan, my lad," Lord Prime caught up to the Irishman outside the dining room, "I don't suppose you've anything on for the day?" When the younger man agreed that he hadn't any plans, the elder took him into the library and showed him an old, old volume, bound in cracked and faded leather.

"This is the _Codex Quæ Occidis_ , a book containing dark histories and methods of murder among other, fouler things. I acquired this myself, in my youth, and I faced many dangers to bring it here."

Brendan looked upon the seemingly innocuous book and felt a chill in his blood, and the strange, pale leather began to unnerve him greatly.

"You see, Mr. Foiche, there are four volumes in all, and I've only got the second. I know that Lord Kaon has the first." Optimus frowned when asked how he knew, and replied that it was none of Brendan's business. "Where the third is, I do not know, but my contacts within the city tell me that the fourth volume makes its way to Lord Kaon's city home in the hands of a young man from Germany. He calls himself Dr. Ottenwilder, but he is no practicioner of medicine. Be wary of him."

With this warning and instructions to retrieve the volume or else destroy it, Brendan found himself standing upon the wide marble steps and peering out into the snow. There was hardly time to bemoan the lack of a bright fire and a warm drink when there was work to be done, and Brendan Foiche was not the kind of man to shirk in his duties.

He made his way around to the stables in the back of the manor, and pulled out the bicycle that Miss d'Iacon normally used.

"Where are you off to, Brendan?" Raphael stood at the doorway, all bundled from head to foot in scarves and gloves and a coat that certainly did not belong to him, being several sizes too large. He was just running an errand for the master, he replied, and he didn't think it one a little boy ought to tag along for. Naturally, this only increased the lad's determination that he should come as well, and after a rather well-reasoned argument, Brendan was obliged to take his brother up onto the bicycle with him.

By and by, they came to the place where Lord Prime's contact was said to be, and Brendan knocked at the door.

"Is Mr. Plum in?" he asked the housekeeper.

No, she said; he'd gone out to Fleet Street to speak with a man at the presses about some books, and wouldn't be back until tea-time.

"Well then," Raph said, "To Fleet Street we go!" For he had in mind that the books in question must have included the _Codex Quæ Occidis_ , and that perhaps the man at the presses knew something about the mysterious figure called Ottenwilder.

It was a bit longer to Fleet Street from Mr. Plum's abode, and the snow upon the walkways had turned to slush, stained with the mud beneath and the the soot of the chimneys above. The going was slow, and so, having the stronger legs, Brendan peddled and Raphael ran alongside in the cold up the winding mazes of streets and people to the Ludgate Circus. Down the walk to Fleet Street, with all its printing presses and papers, there were curiously few people about, lending the place a dismal, factory appearance.

Raphael caught sight of a furtive gesture up ahead, and a stooped and soft-spoken man waved them onward. Having noted Mr. Plum's direction, the smallest of the Foiche children thought it best to warn his brother discreetly that Lord Prime's book-buying friend seemed to want them to follow him into Castle Court.

"You had better keep watch at the end of the alley, Raph my lad," Brendan said as he swung down from the bicycle. "One never knows when a too-curious passerby might turn up, after all. And as for the House of Kaon, there's just no telling where one of those deleterious miscreants might dare to show his face. If you see one, give a whistle, then get clear."

Raphael promised to do so with all diligence, and was soon enough stationed at the end of the lane while the elder Foiche took hold of Mr. Plum's elbow and steered him to a shadowy corner.

Now, said he, hadn't Mr. Plum heard some news of the _Codex Quæ Occidis_ or the young man from Germany who supposedly had it? Oh he had it alright, of that Mr. Plum was quite certain, only as it happened, the young Dr. Ottenwilder was not traveling alone after all. He'd an ill-favored fellow trailing along behind, a hulking brute of a man with an old white scar across his prominent nose and lacking one eye.

Mr. Plum had run across the pair of them further down the street at one of the presses, inquiring after the Kaon estates and-quite oddly-asking for the names of the lads who sold the papers in the different corners of the city.

"I thought it all very strange, and there was something altogether disquieting about that younger fellow," Mr. Plum wrung his wrinkled gray hands again and again, "Oh! Such a look he gave me! You mark my words, my young fellow, there's one who would meddle with all creation if allowed." And he posited that he shouldn't be surprised at all if this "Dr. Ottenwilder" had come from Darnstadt, near the Burg Frankenstein in the Odenwald, for he certainly seemed like a student of the infamous Viktor Frankenstein, however fictional he may have been.

"And where is Ottenwilder at this moment?" asked Mr. Foiche. His contact answered that he and his rough friend had just stepped into _Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese_ for a drink, and likely would be out again at any moment.

At the end of Castle Court, Raphael leaned against the wall and tried not to inhale too deeply. The cold and the slush had done little to alleviate the stench of the squalor that so filled so many parts of the crowded city, nor had the liquid nature of the condensation served as any sort of bath for the unwashed bodies passing along the street in front of him. He was so focused on watching the streets and the windows for the tell-tale purple of a Kaon scout that he was badly startled by a young voice beside him.

"Good day to ya, chavy, Any blackguards about?"

The speaker was a lad of no older than twelve, soot smudged liberally across freckled cheeks and bits of straw-colored hair peeping out from under an oversized bowler cap. He whistled like a parrot through a gap in his front teeth and rocked back and forth in his dirty, patched boots.

"Because I think you forgot to look up! There's a feathery chancer ye mightn't want to ignore."

At first, Raph was simply annoyed. He had come across the older boy twice before, the first time ending in a terrific row that had seen the constable drag them both back to their mothers in high dudgeon. The second had ended merely in a trading of amused and only partially hostile looks between them, and now it seemed that the other boy was in the mood to be friendly. His name was Hagen Shackleton, the eldest of many siblings, and so often did he run errands for Lord Prime and Inspector Fowler that he regarded the streets and such missions as his own with a special fervor.

Raphael crossed his arms and remarked that he hadn't seen any feathery chancers and that he thought Hagen had better state what he meant and stop playing about.

"Don't tell me you didn't notice the bold birdie up there," Hagen pointed and there on a filthy, coal-stained roof was a black falcon that sat and watched the street in a most unnerving manner. "I've had my eye on him a while now. He's up near a second-floor window, so that's jammy. Come on then, give yer brother the slip and we'll off and have a bit of fun with the Kaon Canary!" The arrangement seemed perfectly agreeable to Raphael, and so he darted down the alley and whispered to Brendan that he had somewhere to be just at that moment.

The next Brendan and Mr. Plum knew of it, there was a shrill squawk as though someone was being murdered. All eyes turned to the rooftops of the printing presses, where two laughing boys had got a bird by the tail.

"Watch him now, Hagen," said Raph, "Those are wicked claws he's got!"

"Oh nevermind his claws, mind his beak!"

By turns, the two lads managed to pin the falcon's wings to its sides and wrap a jacket around him. Then Hagen placed his cap over its head and said the little spy looked a proper gentleman now.

Out of the blackness of the smoke and the chimneys rose a tall shape, rigid with absolute fury as Bajānā bore down on the troublemaking pair. The sunlight that filtered through the clouds glittered on the blade of a silver dagger he'd drawn from his robes as he moved to rescue his bird.

"Look out, Raph!" Hagen released the bird and swung nimbly out of the way for all the world like a young monkey as he ducked a powerful swing and came up on the other side. The younger boy snatched up his fallen coat and trapped the bird in it once more. He turned once, twice, then opened it again.

The black falcon, disoriented, flew right into Bajānā's face with a terrible cry, and in the confusion Raph and Hagen made themselves scarce.

Down below, Brendan frowned and said that he thought Mr. Plum had better make for his home, as it was not unlikely that the House of Kaon had identified him as an ally of their enemies. Then he strode down the street to find the lads who had caused such a commotion and dragged them out of the alley where they crouched.

"You lads are mad, ye know that? I don't suppose Lord Prime will be especially pleased that you've gone and attacked Lord Megatron's aide. D'ye have any idea what you've done?"

"Well we didn't want him to catch you and the book-man, did we?" Hagen was quite unrepentant. "Come on now, Cousin Wallace would've done the same."

"You're half-cracked, the pair o' ye!" Brendan took no notice of their protests as he seized both by the collar. "Right, see the bicycle? You two get on it and get back to the Manor. I've a book to retrieve." With dire warnings of what should follow should they disobey his orders, Brendan slipped into _Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese_ and shut the door behind him.


	5. The Incident of the Book-Keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which we discover where Brendan went next

Chapter 4:  
_The Incident of the Book-keeper_

Within the dim and flickering atmosphere of the _Cheshire Cheese_ , one might have remarked upon the furtive looks that passed this way and that, had one noticed, or the overall feeling of a dreadful anticipation that hung upon the air like a cloud. However, as it was a bitter and biting cold outside, the overall attention of the patrons within the establishment tended more to the direction of a well-made fire in the grate, near which two men sat. One of the twain leaned down and knocked a pipe against the grate, clearing it of ashes and making a deep and melancholy sigh. He was a smooth-faced and thin man, no older than thirty-two, certainly; there was a classical beauty to his boyish features, yet if caught at the right moment they might display a puckish air not wholly compliant with his status as a doctor, and calling to mind Stevenson’s thoughts of “a foul soul that thus transpires through, and transfigures, its clay continent”*. 

The other, tucked neatly into the corner with a flagon of his own supply, was something more troglodytic and coarse; scars upon his face and hands - when he deigned to move them out of the sheltering shadow at all - bespoke a life less tailored to the elegant pursuits clearly preferred by his companion. Over one broad shoulder the scaramouch leveled a keen and mistrustful gaze at all who passed near enough their chairs to take notice of their particular features. They gave an impression of ill health with no visible symptoms to put words to, nor any outward appearance of wrongdoing in some murderous mixture of a closed nature and open joviality.

The first of these two lit his pipe once more and took notice of his companion’s stare. “Beruhige dich, mein freund,” he remarked, “Or you will certainly call attention to yourself. Come, come and take a fill of my pipe, won’t you? I’ve just remembered something terribly important.”

The second leaned out of the gloom in a most reluctant manner and said he didn’t think they ought to be relaxing and drinking when they’d such an important parcel to deliver. The first man replied that they could hardly leave while there was work left undone. Of course he would see to it, the second reassured him, but there was another matter: there was a lad at the door watching them very intently, as though he’d like to examine their souls. He didn’t like the look of him, and thought perhaps he might know too much.

“Well let me have a look at your young gentleman,” said the first, and twisted round in his warm chair to find with his dark eyes the unmistakable Mr. Foiche at the bar. He stood with a jerk and moved forward from his spot, and did not stop until he stood no more than a foot from the member of the House of Prime. With an air of defiance, each looked to other fixedly for several moments. Then the man smiled and tipped his hat elegantly.

“Well now, I daresay I shall know your face again if I should see it about,” he remarked, “And as you seem to be determined that you shall discover my whole person without ever having said a word, I fear I shall be obliged to introduce myself! Guten tag, junger mann. I see by the cut of your cloth that you are indeed accustomed to walk more among the circles I frequent. Should we come across each other at a party one day, you may hear me called Dr. Ottenwilder.”

He bowed in a gently mocking way, then held out his hand. “And now I am at a disadvantage, for you know my name and I know nothing of yours.” There was such an air of roguish innocence about him that for the briefest of moments, Mr. Foiche was tempted to buy the man a drink and leave the matter at that. But Brendan was no fool, and could see a lurking devilry behind a gleaming smile. Yet here he was as much a gentleman as the stranger, and took pains to show his manners himself.

“Why it would be an unexpected pleasure should that occur, Doctor. I’m afraid my dear mother worries rather too much for me to go to dinners with friends often, more’s the pity.” He made a little bow of his own and shook Ottenwilder’s hand, introducing himself as _Heathcliff_ Foiche. “If you like,” added he, “You might find me in Mayfair, wandering about Regent Street, I shouldn’t wonder.” 

It came to his attention that “Dr. Ottenwilder”’s larger companion had since vacated his seat by the fire and had unaccountably returned to the frigid air of Fleet Street without his friend. Brendan assumed that he had gone to run some errand, and the terrible thought occurred to him that perhaps Ottenwilder had taken it upon himself to distract him whilst the other slipped out with the _Codex Quæ Occidis_ , intent on delivering it to the House of Kaon.

As he had no way to contact the rest of the Band, and he’d sent Hagen and Raphael back to the Manor, Mr. Foiche could not be assured that help of any kind would be available to him should he venture out into the alleys alone in an attempt to recover the precious volume. Then like a thunderbolt, a second thought, more terrible than the last, broke through the smokey room and dropped firmly into his heart, where it settled like lead: he had left Mr. Plum to make his way home all alone, and Ottenwilder would remember the book-keeper from before. A cursory glance about under pretense of perusing the menu revealed that Ottenwilder’s coat was large enough to conceal a leatherbound book of some considerable size, but Foiche did not think the man the sort to burden himself with a heavy object when a brutish companion might do the job for him.

“Why, whatever is the matter, junger mann?” the doctor’s friendly query masked a positively frightening smile. “You _do_ look discomfited. You had better take care walking home today, you don’t look well at all, dear fellow. And the streets are so dangerous these days!”

Somehow the words went strongly against Mr. Foiche’s inclinations, and he began to suspect that Dr. Ottenwilder knew perfectly well why he had come into the establishment: he was faced with a disquieting choice. He could apprehend Ottenwilder, for which he would have to give an explanation to the constabulary, and only find out then whether he had the book or no, or he could leave and try to find the book-keeper before Ottenwilder’s comrade did, with no guarantee that the hulking fellow had the book at all. He knew well enough which path Lord Prime would have chosen, and at the crossroads of the moment, which he was more likely to choose. Still he debated within himself over the problem, and was forced to acknowledge that all points had come together against him.

“Indeed? I shall keep it in mind, Herr Ottenwilder,” said he, “Perhaps you would be so good as to excuse me?” He did not wait to hear the doctor’s reply as he ventured back out into the cold.  
The snow that had fallen in the morning now presented a gray and distasteful slush which made any form of tracing footsteps near to impossible, and it was certain that Ottenwilder’s friend had the advantage of a head start over Brendan.

There was a deep gloom upon his spirit, nearing nausea as he made his way to Castle Court, where he had left Mr. Plum, and the whispering of Ottenwilder and the other lay heavy on his mind. He began to wish that he had told his brother to send the rest of the Bull’s Horn Band, but he knew that on a day like today, both men would like as not be busy with other duties. Once more within his mind he heard the grave voice of his employer, warning him of the importance of the _Codex Quæ Occidis_ , and what might occur if the House of Kaon were to take possession of the sinister volume.

The whole of Fleet Street and its surrounding alleys and byways were empty of Mr. Plum the book-keeper, and it soon became apparent that the man had begun to make his way home. What few passers-by Mr. Foiche found, when pressed about the matter, spoke of Mr. Plum hiring a cab at the end of the street, and someone made note of an ill-favored figure trailing along behind like a shadow.

Without the advantage of the bicycle, Brendan was obliged to walk as quickly as he could manage through the bitter cold until he came at last to the street where Mr. Plum lived - an observation that seemed fated to be spoken of in the past tense.

There was the man himself, just out of the range of hearing and evidently in some manner of conflict with the much smaller book-keeper, right at his very doorstep. Both men were evidently the worse for the weather, and both were prodigiously displeased with one another. Brendan feared that Mr. Plum might say something altogether unwise and provoke a potentially violent response from Ottenwilder’s truculent partner. A bag hung from the man’s shoulder, one which Brendan knew could hold nothing of worth, or the _Codex Quæ Occidis_. As he drew nearer, he began to discern the matter of the argument. Mr. Plum had discovered the other man - who appeared to call himself Drake - following him, and rather than take fright at seeing the frightening spectre from his moment of spying before, he took offense and resolved to take the man to task for his recalcitrant behavior.

“God bless me, but you’re a bold one!” said the book-keeper, rather more confidently than he ought to have, “I’m sure I can’t guess what you’re about, following decent folk to their doors this way, but you won’t see so much as a pence from me!”

With a low oath, Drake said he didn’t think the book-keeper had any call to use language like that, as though he were a common cur, and reached for his bag. Certain that he was preparing to draw forth a knife or pistol, Brendan left off sneaking and moved almost too quick to be seen. He caught the scoundrel’s arm and pulled him away from the little man. In the scuffle that followed, the bag flew open and out into the slush went a curiously bound text, covered in some sort of pale leather and cracked with age. 

As suddenly as he had grabbed onto Drake, Foiche let him go and made a splendid dive for the book, concerned with neither the shocked exclamations of those on the street who witnessed this event take place in the broad daylight, nor with the infuriated bellow of Ottenwilder’s companion. All at once, a great meaty fist closed upon the back of his collar and lifted him bodily into the air.

“Ye ain’t sich a bright one, lad. Ye’ll find that when ye catch a tiger by ‘is tail, ‘tis considerable easier to catch hold than to let go again!” So saying, he swung his arm back and drove his fist into the younger man’s ribcage.  
From an upper-floor window, someone’s maid shrieked, and someone else called out for the police. Still, Brendan doggedly gripped the book, wholly determined that he should keep it from the hands of Kaon or die in the attempt. 

Mr. Plum took advantage of Mr. Drake’s distraction to slip away unnoticed. He disappeared indoors and the lock clicked shut behind him.

Alternately looking about for a policeman and attempting to dislodge the member of the House of Prime from his prize, Drake drew from his boot a rusted captain’s dirk, discolored to the hilt with stains varying from coffee to blood that had never quite been cleaned away and laid it to his opponent’s chin. He ordered him to let go of the book in the strongest language imaginable.

“You leave go!” Mr. Foiche replied, “For I’ll not let you have it!”

“Let it go, by thunder!” Drake roared, and his eyes burned as hot as the oaths that fell from his lips.

“I’ll not, by thunder!” Brendan swore back, terribly relieved that his parents were not present to hear him swear so. 

At last, Drake grew tired of the stubbornness of the younger man and gave one final pull whilst slashing forward with his dirk. Young Mr. Foiche drew back quickly, and barely avoided losing part of his nose to the rough man, yet he maintained his grip on the pages of the _Codex Quæ Occidis_ , and with the resounding tearing of paper, he went one way and the book the other. 

As the policeman at last rounded the corner, Mr. Drake stuffed his book back into his satchel and made himself scarce, disappearing into the by-streets as though he’d lived there all his life. Mr. Foiche placed the crumpled pages he’d torn from the text into his coat pocket without paying much attention to them and spoke to the constable about what had occurred. He did not mention the book, nor the Houses of Prime and Kaon, only that a rough-looking man had followed the book-keeper, Mr. Plum, to his door and begun an altercation with him, and that he had intervened. With statements taken, the policeman promised to keep a lookout for Mr. Drake and said that he thought Brendan ought to go home and have the cut on his face seen to.

_ Narrative continued by the doctor: how the book came to the House of Kaon _

After the young man from the House of Prime - quite obviously sent with the purpose of spying upon either Bruno or myself - took his leave, I did not leave the _Cheshire Cheese_ for some time. There was, after all, little need to appear suspicious. Even if by some miracle the boy caught up to Mr. Drake, he stood no chance of actually getting the book away from him, for Bruno Drake is a stolid man of singular purpose and unyielding stubbornness when the fit takes him. It did occur to me that perhaps the tying-up of loose ends might not be so quickly done as one might hope with the young man from Mayfair tagging along behind, but it remained my hope that our task might be completed before close of day.

Mind, I had not yet met Lord Kaon personally at that point in my life, and what little I knew of him came from a combination of dire rumors of the blackest sort, and whatever unpleasant comment my _Patentante_ had to say in her letters to me. Of course, I could hardly believe whatever declarations she imparted to me, for Fräulein Estella Clamat does not quite project the kindly air of a proper and trustworthy woman. Rather, I have been told - often by dear Patentante herself - that she only stood as my godmother on the occasion of my birth because the devil himself had a headcold and couldn’t be bothered.

Regardless of rumor and risk, it was known in most of Europe that Lord Kaon was not a man to suffer fools gladly, nor to overlook the errors of others; to keep such a man waiting for a delivery of the importance of mine was at the best unwise, and at the worst a tangible hazard to my safety. So it was that when I had finished my drink and left a coin for the owner, I departed in haste to locate my less intelligent comrade.

He had indeed discovered the home of our “loose end”, but by the look of the maids gawking at the windows rather than attending their duties, and the policeman questioning passers-by upon the walks, I guessed that the book-keeper remained within his dwelling and that Drake had been driven off by someone or something.  
Undaunted, I continued to make my way onward, to a rather more secluded walk. Down the alleys and by-streets, I came at last to a square of very old houses, most still quite handsome in their architecture.

Many of them had been let out as individual flats to “all sorts and conditions of men; map-engravers, architects, shady lawyers and the agents of obscure enterprises”, as I’d once heard it described. My companion and I were now among those who dwelt among the obscure agents of the House of Kaon who filled those flats.  
The houses divided into little apartments bordered upon either side a dark old house still owned in its entirety by one man, the very same who held the deed for every other house in the square: Lord Megatron of Kaon. I do not know to this day how many lived in the darkened manor with him when he returned from India, for I only ever saw three servants and the disquieting man with the hawk who watched, always watched. 

When I arrived, Bruno stood in the courtyard waiting for me, having been thoughtful enough to wait for my presence before presenting the book to Lord Megatron - a sentiment which just as easily could have been the principle of safety in numbers, a point which I intentionally overlooked. We were ushered brusquely inside by a surly manservant who, by all appearances and actions, had better things to do, and found ourselves in a dim and loathsome hall paved with flags and scarcely warmed at all by the pitiful fire in the grate. Among expensive oak paneling hung dark and moody paintings of men, stern in aspect and chilling in nature, that I assumed to be the previous lords of Kaon.

I am, I must admit, not a terribly civilized man, however, and I grew tired of waiting. Drake and I made our way through black rooms lit with red candles, and well-lit parlors lined with books, to the kitchens, where I found to my surprise the very man I’d been looking for in heated discussion with the housekeeper. There seemed to have been some sort of disagreement on the methods of running the household while the master was away in India.

“I think you’ll find,” said Ms. Clamat, “That everything has been kept in perfect order - _my_ order - since you’ve been from home, m’lord. I hardly know what you’re insinuating about your book-keeping, but in _this house_ there is a place for everything and everyone in his place.” 

Quite suddenly, she turned upon her heel and flew at me like a crow, shrieking, “Drop that spoon immediately, Mr. Ottenwilder!”

I was taken aback, naturally, for the spoon in my hand was filled with a scented liquid I had taken for amaretto. I asked her whether it _was_ amaretto, and received a cold and impolite answer.

“No, you dolt,” she answered me, “It’s tincture of cyanide!” It was difficult to say who was more discombobulated: myself, or Lord Kaon. Instantly, his square jaw flushed and his heavy brows lowered.

“You have been making _poisons_ in my kitchen, Ms. Clamat?” he asked in a voice that was really more a growl. To her credit, patentante appeared to be quite unconcerned by this.

“Oh, I dabble,” answered she, and that was the end of the matter, as there was really little any of us could answer to that.

For better or for worse, I had gotten the attention of the master of the house, however, and so it was then that Bruno and I presented Lord Kaon with the book he had instructed us to bring him. As he turned through the pages with stunning rapidity, a fiendish light arose in his eyes and I thought to myself, “If ever a man had the signature of the devil writ on his features, it was this one.” Then, as quickly as he had turned the pages, he stopped. With a terrible look, he raised his eyes to me and remarked that there were pages missing, important pages. I did not learn for many years where those pages had gone.

 

_ Narration continued by members of the House of Prime: after Brendan returned to the Manor _

Brendan was ushered into one of the parlors by Winston, who grumbled over his soaked boots and dripping coat. 

“Is Lord Prime in, Winston?” asked the young man.

“He is, sir,” said Winston, “Only, he has yet to emerge from his conference with the good doctor and the mother of the lad Miss d’Iacon brought in last night. I believe he is arranging for them to take a flat very near Miss d’Iacon.” The manservant said this all softly and in pleasant tones, and added that he and the servants not on holiday had been instructed to treat the two newcomers as they treated the Foiches, Miss d’Iacon, and the other members grafted into the House of Prime. “I do not think he will be much longer, Mr. Foiche. Is it terribly important?”

“Yes Winston, I believe it is,” answered Brendan. The older man said that he would try to find the master and bid the young man wait by the fire until he had warmed himself.

The fire did little to drive away the chill in Mr. Foiche’s blood, for he felt some dark premonition that he could not place. He drew from his pocket the crumpled pages torn from the _Codex Quæ Occidis_ and spread them out upon the little table in the center of the room. The breath caught in his throat as he looked down upon the yellowed pieces of parchment, spattered with dark stains and evil signs, surrounding one single, horrifying word that he had long thought a mere ghost story.  
“Nosferatu…” he read aloud in breathless tones.

“I’ll take that, my lad.”

Brendan found himself looking up into the grave countenance of Lord Prime, who took the pages from the table without looking at them. “You should not have looked at these, Brendan. You will not soon forget what you have seen.” He folded them and slipped them into his vest pocket, then thanked the young man for the risk he had taken.

“M-my lord, what _are_ these? Who wrote this _Codex Quæ Occidis?_ ” Mr. Foiche stammered. A solemn but gentle hand was placed upon his shoulder, and Lord Prime’s eyes were filled with sorrow.

“I have my suspicions, Brendan, but cannot act upon them yet. Do not speak of this to your brothers and sisters, nor to young Darby. My mind misgives me: there is something behind whatever it is Lord Kaon plans that concerns these books, and I fear that it is much to do with the pages you stole.”

He turned and left the parlor, and did not leave his study until the evening meal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *quotes taken from Robert Louis Stevenson's _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_ , which heavily inspired most of the vocabulary and sentence structure of the early chapters of this fic.


	6. The Story of the Flower Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a familiar face is introduced and the author dabbles a bit with the language of flowers

**Chapter 5:  
The Story of the Flower-Girl**

It was the spring of 1879, though one could be forgiven for assuming it was still winter. Ever since the October of the previous year, the atmosphere had retained a mantle of chill so that even now, in April, it was no more than 5.7∘ celsius.*

 

For all that the weather was inclement, Miss d’Iacon did not intend to spend the morning inside as it was a rare occasion indeed when she had no work to complete. The woman took her time as she wandered slowly from shop front to shop front, every now and again making some comment to her companion. At her side walked Nurse Darby in a mauve half-mourning gown, murmuring over a very unusual arrangement of monkshood and anemones on the front of a corner store. 

The woman and her son had become semi-permanent fixtures in Prime Manor, though for a few months they had lived in a flat attached at the back of the Foiche family house, as their home was more equipped for the care and keeping of young people. Arcee had found in Mrs. Darby a kind of kindred spirit, a woman who understood the difficulty of making one’s own way in the world and the grief of losing those closest to you. If there was one soul whose heart could speak to hers unashamedly of the loss of Heathcliff, still fresh in her heart, it was June.

Her husband had been a soldier, a good and honorable but unimaginative man who obeyed orders without question. When he was sent to the Shimonoseki Straights on the _HMS Euryalus in 1864_ , he was entirely unaware that his wife was with child, as was she. She did not realize the truth until a few months later, by which time her husband had long since departed, never to return.

“My dear Miss d’Iacon,” said she, “Did you mark this wreath?” Arcee replied that she hadn’t paid it any particular mind, should she have? “Well I think perhaps it warrants closer inspection, at least. _Do_ try to remember the sorts of letters you must have sent in your girlhood, my friend.”

The typist’s confusion was only momentary as she soon realized what the older woman was referring to. She, like many other girls her age, had occasionally indulged in the sending of coded messages via the language of flowers, and it was true that she hadn’t suspected the late Heathcliff Foiche of being in love with her until he began to leave red camellia and arbutus on her doorstep, signifying _flame in my heart_ and _thee only do I love._

Bearing such memories with combined fondness and sorrow, Arcee bent to examine the wreath that had been placed upon the door of the shop. “I shouldn’t have thought these flowers would have bloomed in this weather, but then, I’m no gardener,” she remarked brightly, but it was a gaiety that was assumed, like a mask donned at a party. Miss d’Iacon had deciphered the message of the anemone and monkshood, and feared for the one who had set it upon the door. _Forsaken_ , the anemones declared, while the monkshood warned, _Beware, a deadly foe is near._

“Well, my dear, shall we go in and ask about them?” the widow asked, and noted that there were some lovely old books in the window that she intended to have a closer look at. It was, after all, altogether too cold to stay out upon the street all day. As the two women made for the door, Mrs. Darby chanced to look behind her. Just barely at the corner of her vision, she saw a young girl.

She was a slight, elfin creature who had obscured her facial features with a large, ugly hat. The girl had come up from between two shops across the road, a bundle of groceries clutched to her chest. When she caught sight of the wreath upon the shop door, she turned without a moment’s hesitation and fled, dropping one of her bags as she went.

_How very mysterious!_ Mrs. Darby thought, _I think I shall have to investigate!_ However, once within the little store, she lost sight of the young woman.

The shop was small and cozy, with a great many odds and ends sitting on two great big cabinets that stood along one wall. Behind the counter was a wall of preserves and dried goods, as well as several small works of art. The shelves themselves were made of the same thick, black wood that criss-crossed the walls and ceiling in supporting beams, and on the edges of the shelf, someone had carved many intricate lines. Upon closer inspection, June realized that the designs were actually Chinese characters - a language she was unfamiliar with. She could only make out, _22:21 不可亏负寄居的，也不可欺压他，因为你们在埃及地也作过寄居的。_ on one part of the beam before bits of hanging cloth and goods covered over it.

At the counter, an elderly woman self-consciously straightened a painting on the wall before offering her guests a pale smile. It looked a bit stretched, as though she had been expecting someone else to walk in, rather than two well-dressed women from another part of town.

Well good afternoon, said she; and was there anything she could do to help them this fine day? Straightaway, Widow Darby took to asking about the old leatherbound book of common cures that she had seen in the window, and Miss d’Iacon walked back and forth and pretended she was taken with a little china figure of some shepherdess girl wearing an enormous bonnet. 

“What a sweet little poppet!” said she, although she really thought it rather gaudy, “And isn’t that a cat beside her? Oh. No, I see that it isn’t.” Rather hurriedly, Arcee drew her hand away. “It’s a spider.”

“Why yes, miss.” the woman at the counter answered, “‘Tis Little Miss Muffet, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Darby noted that Miss d’Iacon had got quite an unusual color about her quite suddenly, and thought perhaps she ought to change the subject. “I confess, we really only came in because we were admiring your wreath upon the door. I was afraid I wouldn’t see any blooms for months, but here they are! I wonder, would you be so good as to tell me what made you think of putting anemones and monkshood together? It’s such an unusual mix, you know.”

The woman laughed, a high, twittering sound. “Oh, pay no mind to that miss. ‘Tis but an old woman’s fancies and nought else. Pretty things, aren’t they?”

“Oh they are indeed, ma’am,” Miss d’Iacon moved away from the shelf and towards the counter. “Such a lovely arrangement! Who were you trying to warn?”

This last statement was said so very calmly and without change of tone that it seemed to catch the shopkeeper off-guard. She very nearly answered, in fact, beginning to say something about, “the wee lass”, then stopping herself. “It’s not my place to tell, miss,” she said, quite stern. “And anyhow, who’s to say I’m warning anyone?” She turned away and fussed about, tidying shelves and pretending that the two women from the House of Prime were not there.

Arcee only smiled and said that they were very sorry to have caused the woman distress. To make up for it, she bought two pieces of penny candy and led Mrs. Darby out onto the street. Miss d’Iacon offered one piece to the widow, who accepted it with a smile. When asked whether she was going to eat the other piece, the typist shook her head. “Oh no, I never touch the stuff between meals. This is for the Chinese girl.”

Her companion drew back in surprise. “Surely you mean the slip of a girl I saw across the street? Then you saw her too?”

“Oh no, my dear Mrs. Darby, I did not see our young friend at all,” replied Miss d’Iacon. 

“Well I think you are being a trifle unfair, to imagine that I’ve some idea of what you’re thinking,” said Mrs. Darby, “I fear I’m not following your reasoning. If you did not see her, then how did you know the girl I saw and the girl the shopkeeper mentioned are the same? And how did you guess that she was Chinese?”

“Deduction, my dear. I could be wrong, naturally, but we’ll pretend I’m right unless proven otherwise, shall we?” Arcee smiled as they marched across the street to where the girl had left her bag of groceries. A trail of rapidly disappearing footprints in the slush highlighted the route the escapee had taken. “You see, I noticed the Chinese script on the beams -- a trifle simplified by an English hand, perhaps, but not altogether dissimilar to the manuscripts I’ve studied -- and it was, in fact, a passage from the book of Exodus. Part of the twenty second chapter, to be precise.”

“Of course! That would be the passage concerning _Do not oppress a stranger_ and _do not take advantage of the widow and orphan,_ correct?”

“Indeed. And not the sort of thing one expects to find in a shop like that, I might point out. Adding this inscription -- painstakingly carved with a great deal of sentiment, if the depth of the lines were anything to go by -- to our shopkeeper’s slip about the “wee lass”, the varying curios on the shelves, and the warning wreath on the door, and I’d guess that the elderly lady has been in at least some contact with Chinese immigrants. Perhaps she’s come across a young woman in danger, and has been helping her? Or perhaps I am very much mistaken. Nevermind, I expect we’ll know soon enough.”

The by-street ended at a bleak courtyard, wholly unremarkable. A foul-smelling smoke rose from the several chimneys of the block of houses, and the shutters were all drawn quite tight. Overall, there was an air to the place that did not sit right with Miss d’Iacon; there were far too many places an enemy could be hiding in the structures around her, and she was quite certain that Widow Darby knew little or nothing at all about defending herself. In the chill of the air, the hubbub of the streets behind them seemed to die away, leaving an eerie feeling in its wake. Arcee shivered and drew her brocade cape a little tighter around her neck. She made a cautious motion to her companion, who set the bag of groceries down on the doorstep of one of the unfriendly buildings. 

All at once, the door opened a crack and a thin arm snaked around the edge to grab at the sack.  
“Hold on just a moment,” Miss d’Iacon said imperiously, “Show yourself, my girl, this instant!” Her tone brooked no argument, and so after what appeared to be an internal debate, the door opened the rest of the way.

In the frame stood a young girl dressed in boys’ clothes, and from her head to her foot there was not a speck of color to be seen. Even the roses had been leached from her cheeks, lending her a sickly pallor. For all that, the child carried herself with a brash and defiant air, and stared unblinking at the women with dark and angry eyes.

“What do you want?” she asked, her English only lightly accented by her native tongue.

“Why, only to see if you are well, my dear,” Nurse Darby answered in lieu of Miss d’Iacon. “You see, we noticed the message in the flowers on the shopkeeper’s door, and worried you might be in some sort of trouble.”

At once, suspicion arose in the girl’s eyes and she made a move as if to shut the door. Quickly, Miss d’Iacon thrust her foot between the door and the jamb, so that it would not close. It was alright, she tried to reassure the girl, they were from the House of Prime, and would not allow her to be harmed. At the mention of the famous house, the girl seemed to lose a little of the half-wild and ready-to-flee appearance that so haunted her.

“I have heard tales of Lord Prime,” said she, very cautiously, “But have never met him myself. Is it true that he harbors orphans and fugitives?”

“I myself was one, once upon a time,” answered Arcee. “Are we to assume that you have no other place to go, my dear? Surely you realize that this is not a suitable environment for someone your age. Why, you cannot be more than eleven, I am sure!” And very crossly, the girl informed her that she was, in fact, thirteen. “Of course, my mistake. But to be sure, my girl, you are far too young to be on your own. Aren’t you parents with you?”

A black look came over the features of the girl and she stepped back into the shadows just as if she’d been a cat that, seeing strangers in its home, hisses and keeps out of sight. “And what if they’re not?” she asked, affecting a careless tone, “Would it shock your fine English sensibilities to know I’ve run away from them?”

Nurse Darby rather dryly proclaimed that it shouldn’t have surprised them at all. Now the full tale had to be told, but first the child motioned them inside and shut the door behind them. 

The interior of the squat and slovenly chamber showed evidence of a great many other tenants, all passing here and there through the course of the day. What little furniture there was, was as colorless as the ragged child at the door. In the dismal gloom of the room, cold as the outdoors and never having been lit by candle or lamp, Arcee and June found themselves seated upon musty cushions for a narrative of the most piteous hues. The girl clasped her hands behind her back and spoke quickly and clearly, like a schoolgirl reciting a lesson.

“My name is Liú Mo Li,” she said, tossing her dark hair, “If you try to send me back, I will fight you and kill you. I can, you know. I am very strong: the shopkeeper says it is so!”

As it happened, she was the only child of an unscrupulous pair of merchants who, being in some trouble with the law in their own country, stowed away aboard a cargo ship bound for London, where they intended, among other things, to sell opium and counterfeits to the desperate in Soho. More than this, they hoped to disappear into the great, bustling crowds of London lest they catch the attention of a particularly industrious investigator who had been on their trail from the time they had left Canton, where they had attempted to set up their enterprises previously.

By Mo Li’s accounts, her mother had always borne a great dislike for her only child, as she had hoped for a son and had been granted a daughter instead. From her earliest memories, she was always being forced to beg for food or charity, or act the prop in some melodrama meant to distract the police, or climb in through someone’s window to let her parents in. Finally, she grew tired of her thief’s life and -- just as the ship docked in the bay -- up she’d jumped from the hold and called out to the captain that there were stowaways aboard.

Before either sailors or her parents could catch hold of her, she’d neatly skipped to the rail and dropped over, swimming to shore. It was there that Mo Li had met the shopkeeper, who was of a temperament to disregard the uncharitable mutterings of any neighbors in order to help immigrants to settle in, and the woman had agreed to keep watch for the girl’s parents and warn her if they should come looking for her.

 

All the while that she narrated, the two women leaned forward and exchanged looks of surprise and unconcealed interest. Each made what she deemed to be an appropriate exclamation of pity or sympathy as the story called for it, and when Arcee heard how the girl had outsmarted her villainous progenitors, she threw back her head and laughed. 

“Bravo!” she cried, “Bravo, my girl. I must say, you are very brave to have come through all that yourself. Do your parents still hunt for you? I cannot imagine why they should, if they dislike you so very much.”

“It is for revenge, what else?” answered their young hostess, “I have caused them great trouble, and they wish to pay me out for it. I would not have thought they had even the slightest chance of catching me, but my father has begun selling to a powerful man, and now he has help.” She crossed her thin arms and scowled, and a touch of color bloomed in her cheeks. “Always I see the bird, watching me. I would stamp upon its wings if I could catch it!” 

Widow Darby thought this sounded far too much like an agent of the House of Kaon, though she did not say so. It was common enough knowledge that the houses of Prime and Kaon were rivals, but no one outside the houses truly knew how deeply the uncharitable feelings ran. If it were to become known that each had assassins that roamed the city looking for opportunities to silence the other, there was no telling what chaos might erupt. And so, with a rustle of cloth, Mrs. Darby stood and tucked a stray wisp of black hair behind her ear. 

“Well, my dear,” said she, “I think perhaps you ought to come along with us. What you have told us may be of interest to Lord Prime, and I’m quite certain he would not approve of us just leaving you here, where you might be discovered.”

Ignoring what few feeble protests the girl put up for politeness’ sake, Miss d’Iacon and Mrs. Darby each took hold of one of her arms and escorted her out into the courtyard. At every moment, they found themselves nervously watching rooftops, or turning sharply to look into the alleys and by-streets as they made their way back to the row of shops. As Miss d’Iacon called for a cab, each felt within her that touch of terror that creeps upon the mind in the darkest, loneliest hours of the night, even as the sun broke free of a cloud and beamed down on the shoppers. 

At last, the coach arrived, and Mrs. Darby stepped in first, followed by Liú Mo Li, who was followed by Miss d’Iacon. And all the while, the typist kept her hand upon her bag, for she was ready to pull her pistol from its hiding-place should an agent of Kaon or one of the treacherous parents make so bold as to try to snatch the girl in the broad daylight. She caught a glimpse of faces at a window as they passed: one narrow and pinched, all her vitriol and temper seeming to come out in her sharp cheekbones and pursed lips. The other had a heavily painted face, a mask polished many times over with glib lies and false kindness. Both stared down at the retreating cab and the women inside it with undisguised hatred.

“Well I think that you shall have to consider laying aside your petty vengeance for another day, Madam,” said the first coldly, “For I have it on good authority that once the House of Prime has taken it upon themselves to scrape an urchin off the streets, they defend their bit of filth quite zealously.”

“Perhaps the House of Kaon is not as powerful as it claims to be, if one little girl can so easily slip away from your spies,” answered the second. To this, the first answered that the typist, Arcee d’Iacon, had become quite the thorn in the side of her operations, and that the brutish thugs of the lower ranks of Kaon were really very useless in trying to kill her, as they all balked at being given orders by a woman to begin with.

“Then perhaps,” the second said smoothly, “you should not ask a _man_ to do the job at all. There are stories, my friend, of someone else who could. You need only promise her blood and she shall come.”

“I, too, have heard these stories,” Miss Clamat sniffed, “And I should like to keep _her_ as far from the House as possible, if I can. If Lord Megatron’s men continue to be thoroughly useless, I shall consider it. Until then, however, I suggest you remain _silent_ on the matter.” With that, they lapsed into silence and glared out at the retreating shape of the coach.

When the three escapees arrived at last at Prime Manor, their young rescue’s jaw fell slack in utter astonishment, for she had never seen a house quite like Lord Prime’s. Equal parts brash enthusiasm and slight trepidation, she made her way up the marble staircase to the front door, all her thoughts eclipsed by a kind of nervous energy. Would they take her in? Have her parents arrested? What if they turned her out on the street? 

When the doors opened to reveal Winston -- who raised both eyebrows comically and called out to the ostlers in the front hall that “another stray” had wandered in -- her fears began to prove themselves unfounded. She was quickly ushered in, where Mrs. Darby began to explain to the young men -- she learned that they were called _Wheels_ and _Brogan_ \-- their delicate situation.

“Ah, that’s a shame lass, an awful thing,” the one called Brogan said. He tugged his forelock in lieu of a cap and gave her a wide and sympathetic smile. “Why don’t ye come away and get yerself some tea, like? The master’s out at present, but you can be sure he’ll say the same as any here: you're perfectly welcome, you are.” 

It was soon decided -- and confirmed upon Lord Optimus’s return -- that they couldn’t very well send Mo Li back to the place she had lived in, knowing it was being watched. 

“If it were not that the Foiche family has not the room, I would have asked them to make a place for you to stay,” the impressive man admitted. He handed the girl a cup of tea and smiled at her, sending the last of her doubts away. “As it stands now, I’m afraid I cannot have you living _here_ at the manor without a chaperone. It would be dreadfully improper.”   
Until he could manage to make certain that the Liús could not harm anyone again, a safe and secreted place would have to be found to harbor her.

“I wonder, Miss d’Iacon,” said the nobleman, “Would you be so kind as to let this young woman stay with you? You have room in your flat, do you not?”

It was not difficult to convince Miss d’Iacon, for she was reminded somewhat of her own childhood in the defiant and self-reliant attitude of Mo Li, and so it was that she came to take the girl in. As she was still Lord Prime’s secretary, Miss d’Iacon was at the Manor every day. She could not leave Mo Li alone, where she might be found, and so she brought her along with her. It did not take her long to meet the other children, and though she was slightly at odds with the Foiches’ two daughters, being of a rather more fiery temperament than they, she got along famously with Raphael and Jack, and they were quite inseparable.

There was, naturally, always the danger that she might be discovered, but Mo Li did not fear for her life as she once had. Upon her fourteenth birthday, papers were drawn up stating that Mo Li was Lord Prime’s ward, alongside the Darby boy and the Foiche children -- who each had the man as godfather -- which offered her a greater degree of protection than before.

And for a time, all was peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *(quick author’s note, this is for real. Look up “1879, Weather History”. The whole year was cold up until 1880.)


	7. A Brush with Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Optimus has a sense of foreboding, Megatron takes a stroll, and someone comes out the worse for it.  
> And in which we have yet another hint of something sinister moving behind the scenes...

_Summer, 1880_  

Near late afternoon, on a warm and wet June day, the master of Prime Manor sat at his ornate desk with a pale tome open before him. In one hand he held a glass with which to closely examine the text, in the other hand he held a candle, though the room was lit already. The rain battered at the windows and added to an overall atmosphere of gloom that pervaded the chamber, as though something darker and heavier than the natural air sought to impose itself over the world.

“ _Scientiae absconditi: ut per visiblem invisibilibus,_ ” the man read aloud. A chill ran through him and his blood seemed to thicken in his veins as he discerned faint scratches below the lettering, written in what any observer might have taken for a deep brown ink. Optimus was nothing so ignorant or gently oblivious as that happy public, and knew all too well that what he held before him was only a fraction of the knowledge that his enemy had gathered, for Megatron still held the first and fourth volumes of the _Codex Quæ Occidis._

Now in that paneled office, the sole chamber of the manor that he set aside as his and his alone save perhaps his personal wing, his imagination grew restless, haunted by the spectre of Lord Kaon. At times he saw the severe figure bent over the first volume and reading forth instructions for a device that would leave a victim’s blood to boil in acidic agony. At other moments he saw before his mind’s eye members of the wicked lord’s house following one of the many maps within the volumes, one that led them to a pair of red shoes capable of making the wearer dance themselves to death.

And the worst of all visions that whispered into his waking dreams was the faint but persistent idea that some shadowy figure stood _behind_ each of Lord Megatron’s endeavors, some dread thing that moved through the city in the silence of midnight, to whom death was but a plaything. Where these thoughts came from, he could not say for certain, but many nights over the last two years had seen him start to wakefulness in something approaching terror: Lord Prime was utterly convinced that something was coming, something that perhaps even Megatron was unaware of, and its arrival would shift the delicate balance between the Houses.

A faint knock at the oak doors startled Optimus from his reverie, and in a moment’s guarded haste, he dripped wax across the pages of the second volume of the _Codex Quæ Occidis_ and pressed the book closed, sealing another chapter shut.

“Enter,” he called, taking care to hide his nerves beneath a tone of gentle authority.

With a gentle squeal of protest, the heavy door swung open a fraction, revealing a thin young man in the darkness of the larger hall. At once, Lord Prime’s features seemed to soften, and he beckoned to the lad to come into the office.

“Young Mr. Darby. What can I do for you?” All very formal and polite, but it was well known within the House that the widow’s son had found a kind of kindred spirit in Lord Prime, and went to him for advice as often as he did to his own mother. For his own part, the nobleman seemed to regard the young man in much the same way that he viewed several of the younger members of his House: as the sons and daughters he seemed fated not to have.

Jack had long since overcome the childish fright that had kept him from speaking more than a few words to his benefactor, though he had never outgrown the overwhelming respect he had for the man. Humbly, he informed Lord Prime that the Bull’s Horn Band had returned from Hamelin, and would soon leave the train station. Had they found young Mo Li? Oh yes, she’d slipped along just as bold as you please, and had somehow managed to steal the Ratcatcher’s Flute while the lads fought Kaon men. Hadn’t he better fetch the coach to bring them back? Oh no, he’d left them money to hire a cab.

The younger man’s eyes were inexorably drawn to the pale leather cover of the _Codex Quæ Occidis,_ and shivered despite himself. “I don’t believe you’ve ever had that out on the writing desk before, sir,” he remarked.

Lord Prime stood and cast a cloth over the offending volume. “I have not,” he agreed, “It is a foul thing to behold, no less so on a day like today.”

The candles continued to burn, heedless of the gathering storm outside the manor, and placidly spread their glow in cheerful defiance even as the distant rumble of thunder heralded worse to come. The patterns of light and shadow flickered across the faces of the pair, and Optimus asked whether the boy had any other business to discuss, or whether he’d simply wished to speak with Lord Prime for the sake of company. With a smile of boyish guilt, Jack admitted that he had rather stay in the upper floor of the manor than go back to the sitting rooms at present, for Doctor Rach was in a foul mood.

“He’s quite certain, you know, that there must be something unnatural about this weather,” said he as both exited the study at a sedate pace. “Over and again he tells us all that it’s quite against the almanac’s predictions, and as no-one can actually find an almanac less than three years old in the house, we’ve no way of confirming or curtailing his complaints!”

“I see,” Lord Optimus straightened his neck-tie and nodded, and for a moment the temptation was strong within him to dismiss it all as the workings of a mind overtaxed with worry. But the good doctor was only very seldom mistaken, and to disregard his complaints on the basis provided would surely prove to be a mistake, perhaps a grave one. “Well then, my boy, perhaps we had better ask Isaiah what the almanac’s predictions were _meant_ to be, eh?” He pasted on an unconcerned smile and took the stairs two at a time, as though he were a lad.

“Tell me, Jack, what do _you_ think of it all?” the nobleman asked quite abruptly, when they’d reached the landing. “What are your thoughts on the _Codex Quæ Occidis_?”

The young man was caught off guard by the question, and thought a moment before answering. “My lord, I have not seen the pages of the book as you have, and I can only guess at their content by the uncanny incidents we have so often found ourselves in. I cannot explain it, but I think that I should be more frightened of the man who wrote the four volumes of the _Codex Quæ Occidis_ than of any device within its chapters. It must take a heart full of the most dreadful hatred of man to produce so many ways to remove them from the mortal coil.”

As he spoke, his voice grew faint and his eyes took to shifting back and forth, as though he feared that someone might listen in. As with the Foiches, the Shackletons, as with Mo Li, young Mr. Darby had been forced to grow up perhaps a little sooner than he might have otherwise, for the House of Kaon very soon identified them as the allies of Lord Prime. Jack had established himself as a man of an even temperament: carefully calm in agitating situations and determined once provoked to action, though of no considerable strength. (By a degree of opposite factors, Mo Li had so grown out of the fear of her parents finding her that she approached all danger as but a temporary hurdle, and one to be leveled rather than circumnavigated, for hers was a temperament that knew no fear. )

Lord Prime set a hand on the boy’s shoulder, meaning to comfort him, but he could not deny the gloom that settled on his own shoulders, for it was the very fear that had begun to plague his dreams. “Indeed, Jack,” he said in a hushed tone, “I can scarcely believe that a human could write such an abomination, even knowing the corruption that lurks in the hearts of all men. But let’s not speak any more about it at present.” He had, as he told young Darby, an errand in mind that he could not attend to himself.

Though the pouring rain and its accompanying storm did give him pause in assigning the task, Optimus thought it best to get the younger lads out of the manor for a time. Hagen had been put very out of countenance to discover that Mo Li had slipped along to Hamelin after he had already been told he could not go, and by proxy little Raphael was peevish as well. It wasn’t a mission, nor even a task of any great importance, but in allowing Hagen, Raph, and Jack to go alone, Optimus hoped it would assuage the younger two.

“I wonder if you and the other lads might make a trip to Dr. Rach’s flat and bring back his black bag? He’s left it behind again, and I have a suspicion growing upon my mind that we shall have need of it before long.”

Jack was only too eager to agree, for any chance to attempt to repay Lord Prime for his kindness to the Darby family was quickly seized and acted upon. Likewise, Raphael was quite ecstatic to have the chance to leave the manor, rain notwithstanding, and Hagen was nearly down the front steps before they caught him long enough to explain the errand. With buoyant spirits undampened by the storm, the three set out for Dr. Rach’s apartment, part of a dilapidated house very much within the poorer parts of London.

 

There were others abroad that evening whose spirits were also determined, though as black as pitch. It was seldom indeed that Lord Megatron left his dwelling-place for reasons unrelated to the pressures of society or the testing of a weapon of the _Codex_. It stood to reason, then, that if he was out and about on that foul and stormy afternoon, there must have been devilry afoot.

This was certainly the case, as Megatron’s many tinkerers and inventors of ingenious devices - whether willing supporters of his cause or otherwise - had at last succeeded after many months in the construction of one of the devices in the fourth volume: a gauntlet capable of harnessing the power of lightning and electricity, and then using it as a weapon. It was a crude affair, little more than a padded falconer’s glove wrapped ‘round with copper and gears. The glove puttered and hummed most alarmingly as it sat upon his wrist, and Lord Kaon gave it a black look from beneath heavy brows. Too many endeavors that might have otherwise immortalized him in the scientific community, or granted him a devastating advantage over the House of Prime, had either gone haywire or been stopped cold by Prime and his ilk.

His inventors’ generous patron would likely grow impatient soon, though Megatron had yet to see him raise his voice above a drawing-room whisper. It was certainly more prudent to test the device before claiming success, as Mme Clamat was wont to do. A well-built, solid man of forty and nine, Megatron of Kaon was hardly one to be disturbed by the weather, be it rain or fog. He eschewed umbrellas or hats and strode bareheaded beneath the downpour behind Bajāna along the dark and winding streets.

“What your purpose could be in leading me so far from the house, I hardly know, Bajāna,” said the man in a growling sort of voice, “Unless you intend to divert suspicion from Kaon should the gauntlet prove to be in working order.”

“Divert suspicion,” the uncanny mimic agreed. The rain soaked into the blue robes that swathed him head to foot, and the material hung like dark drapes, blending into the shadows. He halted at the edge of an alley and, sticking the toes of his boots and his fingers into cracks between the stones, began to climb up the walls of a house in the most alarming fashion as though he had been a spider. From his vantage point, he perched gargoyle-like with his hawk upon his shoulders, and gestured twice with his left arm, by which he meant to signal his master that the intended test subject was two streets over.

The cruel men marched onward through the downpour, in the direction of two old houses that had been broken up into individual flats that could be rented very cheaply. At that very moment, three lads of sixteen, fourteen, and twelve stood upon the doorstep of one of the two houses, entreating the landlady for entrance.

The woman who collected the rent in the block of flats where Dr. Rach lived had an evil look about her, as of someone who delighted in gossip and malicious news. She glanced down her snub nose at the trio on her front step and would not hear of them entering, for of the three, two were Irish. The general noisesome clatter of the city at large was somewhat muffled by the falling rain, and as Hagen had appointed himself spokesman-in-general for the lads from House Prime, what sound the city retained was soon drowned out altogether.

“See here, you wicked creature,” the boy said with some rather shocking language, “Just you stand aside and let us fetch the doctor’s bag, like. It’s lashing out here, and you’d leave a wee thing like this lad-” and here he threw an arm around Raphael’s shoulders, who had the decency to look weak and sickly- “out where he may catch cold?”

The woman said she hardly cared what happened to the boy so long as they got off of her front porch, and she threatened to call the police if they did not leave. “I daresay you won’t!” Hagen argued, “For if you don’t let us inside this instant, _I’ll_ call for Inspector Fowler of Scotland Yard, and tell him your establishment failed an inspection!”

This was hardly an idle threat, for Hagen Shackleton had so often been a benign nuisance to the police that they had all become rather fond of him, and would likely readily agree to most favors he asked of them. As it happened, the landlady _had_ been avoiding inspections for her dimly-lit and poorly-kept flats, and could not afford the possibility of a surprise inspection. Grudgingly, and with very bad grace, she stepped back and allowed that only _one_ of the three boys should come inside to fetch Rach’s medical kit from his flat. As Jack had actually been to the doctor’s flat a few times before, he was sent up to retrieve the bag while the other two boys waited beneath the eaves.

* * *

 

**_Narrative taken up by Inspector William Fowler_ **

 

I arrived at Prime Manor in the midst of a thunderous downpour, alongside the Bull’s Horn Band, which had just returned from Hamelin, unless I was mistaken. We greeted each other cordially at the door, and were soon drying our coats before a fire in the parlor.

“My dear Inspector! What can have brought you to the manor in such terrible weather?” asked Widow Darby - a very charming lady who lives with her son in the manor; I am given to understand that she is a cousin of Lord Prime’s - “Surely you cannot have heard of the Band’s success in Hamelin already?”

She was not quite as interested in my answer, perhaps, as she was in drying off the unkempt young lady who had trailed in with the Irishmen. I recognized the girl to be Lord Prime’s ward, Mo Li, who lived with the secretary. How she had managed to slip along with the Bull’s Horn Band to fight the Ratcatcher was a tale that staggered belief, but as it was not the first time she had done such things, no one was particularly out of countenance.

Winston bustled about, giving all and sundry hot mugs of tea, despite the overall humidity of the outdoors, and scolding that we should all catch our deaths of cold. My news was rather urgent, however, and so it was decided that tea would have to wait until after I had spoken to the master of the house. I was ushered into his study, where he sat frowning down upon the flute that young Mo Li had stolen from the Ratcatcher. He had stopped up all the holes with wax, and now seemed to be considering how best to be rid of the pernicious thing.

“You might just toss it into the fire,” I offered as I entered the room. He rose and shook my hand heartily, expressing his apologies for not contacting me sooner. “I’m afraid I did not come about the Hamelin case,” I admitted, and was forced to get straight to the heart of the matter.

I told Lord Prime that, on that very morning, one of my detectives had found a man near the Kaon estate, dead. He had been one of the scientific community who had disappeared several weeks prior to the incident, and for all my efforts I had been unable to locate him. He had severe burns upon his face and seemed as though he had been struck by lightning, despite the fact that the rain had not begun to fall until nearly an hour  _after_ his body was found. Clutched in the cold hand of the unfortunate victim was a scrap of paper that said only, “ _The designs prove workable at last._ _So it begins, old friend_ ”.

“Lightning, did you say?” Lord Optimus looked interested. “Do you have the paper now?” When I handed the little torn piece to him, he seemed to recognize the writing. At once, a change came over him, and the blood seemed to drain from his face.

“Inspector, gather the doctor and follow me!” he cried out, and darted out the door past me and down the stairs like a madman, shouting, “I sent them out- He knows their faces- Ah! I did not think! Hurry my friend, before it is too late!”

I did not learn what he meant until we had taken a cab to the doctor’s place of residence, and came upon a terrible sight. The robed assassin known as Bajāna had got Hagen Shackleton by the collar, and had a knife poised to gut him. The masked man had never forgiven the lads for trapping his beloved hawk, years ago. The Darby boy had Bajāna by the wrist and was barely keeping the blade from Hagen’s ribs. Even as we exited the cab and hurried towards them, the young Foiche boy did something rather rash.

We were not close enough to hear what it was that he said to the taller figure beside the assassin, but as I approached I heard the loathsome voice of Lord Kaon snarl, “In _my_ childhood, such impertinence was met with a caning. I should think that in today’s hardened generation, something more _drastic_ is required.”

He raised his fist, on which sat a curious device of metal and wires, and a bolt of something like lightning shot out and struck the boy in the midsection, knocking him backwards and onto the street.

* * *

 

**_Narrative continued by members of the House of Prime_ **

There was a roar of outrage, and forever afterward, no one was quite certain who had uttered it. Bajāna did not move from his spot, so unaffected by the vicious attack that he merely turned his attention back to his attempt to kill the Shackleton boy. Doctor Rach hurried to the fallen child’s side as Lord Prime sprinted past him like an avenging angel, a sword drawn in one hand and pistol in the other. 

“By heaven, Megatron, if that boy dies I’ll see you hang for it!” he cried, and swung out with his rapier.

The lord of Kaon drew a blade of his own and back and forth they traded a hail of blows so that sparks leapt from the steel only to be extinguished by the dark and grimy rain. In the midst of the thunderstorm they battled, and in a fit of rage, Optimus struck Megatron with a blow that split his arm from shoulder to elbow.  The older man roared more after the fashion of a wounded bear than a human being, and Bajāna dropped Darby and Shackleton in an instant to attend to him.

By this time, the police had hastened to the place, having been alerted by the shouting and the sound of Inspector Fowler’s whistle. Lord Kaon and his assassin had vanished into the storm in the blink of an eye, leaving only the aggrieved party as witnesses to what had taken place. With a cut above his eye and his coat in a state of disrepair, Lord Prime put away sword and pistol and hurried to kneel beside the very youngest Foiche.

“How does he fare, Samuel?” he asked in grave tones. On the stones, Raphael lay still, barely breathing at all.

“I’ve got his heart beating again, but we’ve got to get him inside,” the doctor answered grimly, “He was lucky. Very lucky, in fact, for the electricity missed his heart and seems to have gone just beneath the lungs. He’s been burned, badly, but once he’s in my flat I’ve a better chance of treating him.”

The doctor stood and stepped back as Lord Prime lifted the boy and pushed past the landlady at the door, who had watched the entire affair in silence. As the rest of the party followed in somber silence, Jack halted beside her with a dark look wholly unusual to his demeanor.

“You could have prevented this,” the young man said in a low voice, “You stood aside and watched those men attack that boy when you might have offered shelter. Let that stand against your conscience, madam.”

There was some intensity about his eyes that deeply unnerved the landlady, and she shut herself away in her rooms and did not emerge until they had all left. Jack hurried up the stairs to find the men gathered around a bed, where Raphael lay. The electricity had burned through his shirt and left deep red marks reminiscent of ice fractals in shape, and Dr. Rach was applying an ointment to them while Hagen stood beside his friend’s head with a damp cloth. Lord Prime paced the room like a caged tiger as Rach worked feverishly to save the lad’s life.

“I shouldn’t have sent them out,” Optimus stopped to remark to the inspector, “I ought to have kept them indoors regardless until everyone was home. All the same, I thank you for warning me in advance that the men of Kaon were about. If you had not, I do not think we would have reached Raphael in time.” Then he withdrew and continued to pace until he caught sight of Jack at the door.

“Mr. Darby,” he motioned the lad to join them, “What happened? Can you tell the inspector anything of the weapon Lord Megatron used, or his intentions in interacting with you?”

There was still anger visible on Jack’s face as he tried to describe the gauntlet Megatron carried, then he murmured, almost as an afterthought, “He seemed surprised to see the lads, when I rejoined them, and he cast an odd look at Bajāna. I think that the former must have been looking for a target to test the machine, one of the House, I am sure, and the latter must have marked Raph and Hagen for death.” Even as he uttered the words, Jack’s hands clenched into fists and his eyes bore the same anger as every other man in the room.

At the mention of the assassin, the patient moaned, as though coming out of a nightmare. When hastily asked by the doctor how he fared, he remarked only that his chest pained him and that he was thirsty. Scarcely holding back tears, Hagen took hold of his hand and declared that Raph now had battle scars that would make even Mo Li jealous.

“That is, you understand, provided my mother doesn’t shut me away for the rest of my life following this...incident,” Raphael croaked, but he managed a weak smile at Dr. Rach and his best friend.

Across the room, Jack stood beside Lord Prime and Inspector Fowler, each wearing identical frowns, arms crossed in contemplation.

“This entire affair seems out of character for Lord Kaon,” Fowler complained, “He was seen by enough witnesses for me to put out a warrant for his arrest after this assault. What possible motive could the man have had for doing this himself? Surely he knew he would not be able to hide his involvement!”

“Perhaps,” Jack suggested, “He meant to kill the three of us long before you arrived. It is true that Hagen and Mo Li and Raph and I _did_ cause him quite a bit of difficulty this last winter. Do you recall the incident in the Solomon Mines, for instance? It may be that he realized the advantage of our youth and size and meant to stop a problem before it became worse.”

During this exchange, Lord Prime was curiously silent. There were dark premonitions circling his thoughts that he could not share with the others, especially not the younger members of his House. There could be only one reason for Lord Megatron to test a weapon for himself rather than leave the duty to a servant: it was meant for another, someone that somehow even Megatron feared. He had seen the frenzy with which he defended himself, how zealous he was in protecting the gauntlet, and the flicker of what was almost fear in those cold eyes. Optimus had seen him that way only once before, when he was a lad and Megatron had come to visit his father, pursued by some enigmatic figure from his distant past.

Ignorant of the conversations around him, Lord Prime stared out the tiny window into the unnatural storm, his jaw clenched so tightly that all his face was white. “Who are you afraid of, Megatron?” he wondered.

* * *

 

_Bajāna bound up the wound on Lord Kaon’s arm, in secret rage and indignation that he was unable to prevent it. The nobleman sat in the darkness of one of the many safehouses he had in the city, and across from them stood a slim and aristocratic figure, of a menacing cut._  

_“I see that you have injured yourself, my poor friend! You must take greater care,” the voice said with a gentleness that was somehow slick with hypocrisy. A hand as white as bone, without a speck of color about it, reached down towards the larger man’s bleeding arm. Adder-like, Megatron’s other hand shot forward and caught hold of the man’s wrist in a grip like a vise._

_“The gauntlet was promised to you, but_ _only_ _the gauntlet. You’ll not have anything else of mine.”_

_The shadowy figure drew back, as though wounded, and smiled, what little light there was reflecting off of sharp white teeth. “Do not forget, Megatron of Kaon, to whom you owe your advances in power. I am sure you did not mean to be insulting, but I do recommend greater care in the future, for I become...irritable when addressed discourteously.”_

_He bowed once, then melted back into the shadows with a grace that not even Bajāna could hope to attain. Lord Megatron looked upon the spot he had just occupied with a disquieted spirit, and kicked the pale tome he had been reading beneath his chair._

_“We shall see who must take greater care, Count Polidori. We shall see.”_


End file.
